


The Carters on 50th Avenue

by bastet_goddess



Series: Fake It/Make It [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Fake Marriage, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Owen and DMA are two different people, Panic Attacks, Political Commentary, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Some scifi elements, Torture, and external homophobia too!!, minor baker au, minor soldier au, more tags as we go along, so i must respond in kind, the discord asked for it, the product of pure bullshittery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-03-10 04:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 127,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_goddess/pseuds/bastet_goddess
Summary: To get closer to known bomb maker Sergio Santos, the CIA and MI6 paired up their finest agents and stationed them in Manhattan where they can befriend the family and discover Sergio's past, present, and future clients. It's a relatively simple mission, something both Curt Mega and Owen Carvour can pull off without breaking a sweat.If only they weren't doing this while acting like a married couple. Does it help that they're crushing on each other?The answer is no.





	1. new dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers: War, episodes of dissociation, violence. Please tread carefully, I would hate to have someone have a panic attack on accident :( 
> 
> I've been hyping this up in the SAF Discord server for ages and this is finally the day I am free enough to write it. Dedicated to u dumbasses who kept asking me to write it. I love y'all
> 
> The biggest thank you to Lilly and Percy!! They are my baby betas and I love them so much!!

Syria’s a hellhole.

 

Curt eyed the darkened terrain below them, trying to make out shapes as they passed by. Small blobs clustered together were trees, maybe horses at rest and some of them were charred remains of whatever conflict scorched the earth. The rotors overhead drowned out any noise from the ground, crackling the air like thunder and rattling the helicopter's hull. He drowned out the chatter of the other soldiers around him and eyed the only other CIA agent with him.

 

He adjusted the clunky microphone in front of him and nodded at Simmons, who was hunched over a small device. "Whatcha got there, Simmons?"

 

The aforementioned agent, an analyst who specialized in IS operations, looked up and frowned. He's known her for as long as he's been stationed in the region, and it's currently been 4 years and 3 months of it. On most days she was bright and cheerful, constantly filling him in about the latest drama happening in Langley. It was a welcome method of filling out the emptiness in his chest since deployment.

 

It was strange now that he could only be able to stare at her eyes. She peeled back her mask,  "A computer virus. Want it?"

 

"No thanks," Curt quickly quipped, turning away and back towards the desert sands. He heard the bemused chuckle of Simmons before she returned to tapping away on the device. The helicopter lurched and the metal whined, the cockpit tilting to the side as they started their descent.

 

"This is hardly a stealth landing," Simmons muttered mostly to herself, but it seemed as if the microphone picked that up. The captain of the team had to agree while the pilots scoffed.

 

A soldier pushed back one of the doors and suddenly the thunderous shrill of the rotors became louder. His heart followed the rhythm of the rotors as he felt the adrenaline settling in, a familiar old friend in this grand life as a spy. Sand kicked around them and the air smelled like salt, which isn't much of a surprise. Curt pulled up his mask and squinted, night vision kicking in as everything glowed green. He could hardly hear over the humming as orders were yelled and ropes were cascaded down.

 

Bright white sparks flew by with the sharp whistling of air, and Curt sighed as he tightened the strap of his helmet. The welcoming committee was really rolling out the red carpet for them.

 

"Shoot them down!" The team commander yelled into their shared channel, the pilots acting upon unheard orders to move out of the way as a loud whistle blew past them. The resounding boom and crackle in communications had his heart leaping out of his chest.

 

Machine guns are loud, and they drowned out the rotors as they fired down upon whoever was shooting at them. Curt grabbed Simmons by the back of her bulletproof vest and hauled her to the other side of the chopper, the damned analyst unbothered by the gunshots. She continued to tap codes into the device.

 

"Are you fucking deaf or something, Simmons?" He hissed. Just seconds ago his partner was dangerously close to the opened door, right beside a shower of bullet casings ejected by the machine gun beside her. And yet she continued coding a virus into her flash drive as if she didn't care about it happening. She's damn lucky he wouldn't let her get killed on a mission, who knew what would happen if she did?

 

She snuck him a glance and smirked, "Oh please, Mega, we both know you wouldn't let me die."

 

He rolled his eyes and waited until the machine gun's roar quieted. The team commander started yelling orders to rappel down, and Curt was more than happy to oblige. There's a moment of weightlessness that came with going down a line of rope, a strange happiness spouting in his chest as familiar neurons fired away to focus on the task at hand. His execution was clean, simple and textbook, but one that exhilarated him to no end.

 

Soldiers were already up ahead clipping down a few rebels, yelling a mix of English and Arabic into the wind. Curt and Simmons quickly made a mad dash for the nearby wall, narrowly avoiding the trail of grenades and shrapnel that followed their feet.

 

Curt's finger was on the trigger when he saw the blur of a head, and his hand had already pushed the barrel up to shoot out a few rounds. He heard Simmons' warning as he pulled the trigger and fired off, listened to her sharpened curse as a few responded back at him. She thrust an arm out and flattened them both against the concrete, watching the bright white flashes as they zipped past him.

 

A loud boom shook the ground and the gunshots were silenced, dust swirling into the air as they went. A hush came over the channel as they both waited, eyes wide open, the world a haze of greens before the team commander roared for them to move forward. Curt turned to nod at Simmons before surging forward, gun at the ready, knowing that Simmons was doing the same right behind him.

 

It was a quick operation, meant to be a crackdown on the remaining IS extremists who had territory. Officially speaking the caliphate _was_ defeated, but that was in the eyes of the government and the mainstream media. Down on the ground, however, was a different story. One of the many messes that had to be cleaned was the radicalized fighters and what they brought home to their villages. This was one of them.

 

A contingency of fighters found their way into a remote village and had been controlling it for two months, boasting themselves as the ones who would make the caliphate great again. Intelligence suggested that they had plans to move out of Syria and carry out attacks across Europe, mostly suicide bombings at major landmarks. It was up to the Iraqi army to take down the fighters, and it was up to the CIA to gather information.

 

He switched his lenses to thermal vision, watching as the green gave way to multiple colors and hues. The cries of women and children echoed around the village and the communication channel as they trudged forward, making their way with no opposition. One of the soldiers spoke softly in Farsi to explain to the civilians what was going on.

 

"This place is a hellhole," Simmons said next to him, the frown on her face obscured by fabric. She pulled down her mask, switching off her goggles as she kneeled down to speak to a child nearby in clipped Farsi carrying a questioning tone. Curt switched his off as well and watched idly as he waited for her to finish, finger twitching on the trigger. He wanted to cut to the chase and find the house they're looking for, yet they had no clue which one it was. He listened numbly as one of the soldiers argued with one of the elders in their native tongue, the hysteric fear of the elder contrasting with the strict baritone of the soldier. Curt flicked his gaze to the child and watched him steadily, eyes narrowing. The way the child was staring at him unnerved him.

 

"Ask him why he's looking at me," Curt said, maintaining eye contact with the child. It was a wide-eyed look he likened to when a kid was going to ask him something stupid, but something was nagging him that the look had something else to it. The world he's operating on is one of deceitful looks and dark pathways, with people who wouldn't give two shits about using a child in the name of religious warfare. Simmons dutifully relayed the question in the language before the child bumbled out in a high-pitched voice, mouth revealing countless cavities and sores.

 

"He says he's never seen an American in person," She said in English, turning back to Curt and smiling. His gaze was back on the child who stared up at him expectantly, pupils blown wide with unanswered questions. He gave the kid a dry look before rummaging around his pockets, trying to find the snack bar he kept in one of them. Simmons continued speaking, “The one we’re looking for is two houses away from here, on the left.”

 

Curt gave the kid one of his Snickers bars and turned away, not waiting to hear the excited Farsi that followed after. His goggles hummed back to life as the world was once more obscured to a haze of blues and greens, the figure of Simmons next to him a vision of reds and oranges.

 

He eyed the device in her palm and frowned. She was back to coding again. Simmons seemed to have noticed him looking and turned to him, a toothy smile on her face. He would have called it mischievous. "We're both proficient in Farsi, Mega, you didn't have to ask me to translate."

 

"I keep telling you, I don't talk to children when we're on the job," Curt muttered and kept going, Simmons arching a brow as she turned back to her handheld device. They found the house they were looking for, the only one within sight that had no lights shining within it. The communications channel was alight with Farsi and they could hear the distant gunshots of the Iraqi army. Looks like they found the remaining rebels. “If the coding of the virus was so bad, why didn’t you ask the tech monkeys to fix it?”

 

He only got blue and green thermal readings from the house's interior. He slowly strode over and checked the doorknob. It was unlocked. Whoever was there left in a hurry, probably alerted by the sound of their helicopters. Curt twisted it and stepped inside, Simmons at his heels. He kept his rifle up as they moved across the threshold, the blues and greens remaining constant. His breath before him was a bright yellow.

 

"Take the corridor to your left and move until you get to the door at the end,” Simmons said as she finally ejected the flash drive and pocketed it. She shifted to deposit her device in one of her pockets while keeping one arm on her gun, half-raised in preparation should anyone run out to meet them.

 

They get there with no problems. The study room was cluttered with magazines, a computer, and filing cabinets labeled A-Z in thick lettering. There was a stash of guns and boxes (he winced upon realization that they were familiar makes that were usually distributed by the CIA) set to the side, one of the boxes rummaged through with bullets spilling out of it. Simmons strode over to the desktop and wiggled the mouse for the screen to come on, a mess of bright oranges and reds that prompted Curt to turn off his thermal vision. The room was bathed in the computer's glow as he made his way to the nearest filing cabinet and pulling it open. Simmons was already working on getting the computer's password.

 

He reached over to his earpiece and dialed it low until the Arabic was nothing but quiet warbles he couldn't decipher. He patted his pockets until he found what he was looking for, pulling it out and snapping it out of its folds. It was a large canvas bag to put all the files in.

 

"Do you think the Iraqi are winning or losing?" He turned to Simmons whose eyes remained on the computer screen before her. The room bounced around the sound of her fingers dancing around the keyboard. It was a loud and clacky tune.

 

"Who cares?" He tried, shrugging as he returned to dumping files into the bag. Loose pages flew around whenever they were freed from their manila folders, and Curt took the time to pause and reach down to pick it up. He briefly checked his watch, neon numbers staring back at him. They read 0548.

 

"It matters when they're our ride out of this hellhole," She shrugged and inserted the flash drive in the nearby port. She waited until the virus fully transferred before ejecting it and cutting the power. She eyed the two drives in her hand and reached to Curt's belt, tugging it and slipping it into one of its pockets. "You keep the virus stick. I don't want to accidentally shut down the whole block's servers when I'm trying to upload data."

 

He chuckled and relented, making a show of patting his pocket to assure her of its safety. She helped in finishing off the last cabinet before they grabbed the handles of the bag and carried it together. He huffed as she sucked in a sharp breath. It was heavier than he thought.

 

They emerged a few minutes later at the doorstep, sweat beading down their brows and backs. Curt reached up to dial his earpiece back to normalcy, translating the reports coming in and confirming that they were ready for extraction. He nodded at Simmons and they ambled down the pathway before they stopped to take a breather, Curt tilting his head up to gaze at the sky.

 

Dawn breaks.

 

* * *

 

The call to prayer of the nearby mosque rippled through the air, the microphone echoing across the sleepy streets of Khalis. The breeze that filtered through the sheer curtains was nice and cool, lilting with the familiar smell of the fish market across the street. Curt stared up at the ceiling as he stretched over the couch that’s been his bed for the past few months, throwing a small stress ball in the air before gravity pulled it to return to his hand.

 

He hardly slept that night. He doesn’t usually sleep well after field missions, no matter how clean they were or how shitty they went. No matter the outcome he ended up staring at the ceiling of his room, his stress ball in hand, matching its compressions to the beat of his heart.

 

He can see the faces of the people he’s shot down behind his eyelids, and he has no intention to see them again anytime soon.

 

“Couldn’t sleep again?” Curt raised his head and blinked when Simmons came into view, fingers curled around a rich green scarf. She was dressed as if ready to step out of the safe house, a cardigan wrapped around her with a long dress billowing at her feet. She hefted up her shoulder bag and eyed him steadily, unblinking as she waited for a response. He numbly nodded. “I can buy you those sleeping pills if you need them.”

 

“It’s fine,” He brushed her off and shook his head, sitting up and stretching to loosen stiffened muscles. He groaned quietly as he felt his joints pop in greeting, absentmindedly scratching his beard as he sniffed dryly. It’s been a while since he got ahold of a razor. He lost his own when they had to move safe houses. “Could you- Could you get those cheese bread things-”

 

“Kanafeh.”

 

“Yeah, that,” He waved his hand dismally. “I’m craving some.”

 

“I’m not your maid, Mega,” Simmons said and rolled her eyes, a small smile on her face as she wounded the scarf around her head and turned down the hallway. He waited until he heard the familiar click of the door being locked before getting up from the couch, feet a mess of pins and needles as he slowly walked his way down to the kitchen. The call to prayer kept ringing around the safe house, bouncing off of the dirty white walls and the shabby staircase.

 

He absentmindedly turned on the coffee machine and rubbed his chin, sniffing as he took in its current state. The kitchen was a dirty, gritty mess, with dirty dishes left uncleaned by whoever was supposed to be in charge for the week. He eyed the bulletin board on the other side of the wall next to the refrigerator, squinting at the pictures of Simmons’ family and the occasional picture of his mother. He strode over to get a better look of the board when he noticed the voice recorder right next to it, white light calmly blinking with new messages.

 

Curt sighed and pressed on the machine’s button, ambling towards the nearby bathroom to wash his face. The water was cold as he splashed it on himself, half-listening to the messages as they came in. The first one was Briggs asking if they wanted some of the Twinkies he and his buddies got from a care package. The second was Jackson requesting for them to pick up either of their phones.

 

“Mega, Simmons, I expect you at the embassy today at 1100 sharp.” He froze as he recognized the familiar tone of Cynthia Houston, pausing from his bent over state to let the words wash over him. It’s been a while since he heard her voice, a barely there snarl that boomed with authority. His mind reminded him of the last time he heard from her. “There’s been some recent developments that you ought to be briefed for.”

 

He lifted his head to stare at the mirror, eyeing himself as he did. His beard was beginning to grow unruly around his chin, strands curling in all directions and brushing against his skin. His eyes were bloodshot and had bags underneath them, thickened lines that almost seemed to make him older. For a moment there he didn’t even recognize himself — how could he, when he looked this bad for wear?

 

His breathing stilled, as if waiting for something that would permit him to breathe once more. Part of his mind was in Iraq in the bathroom of the safehouse, waiting for the long beep that ended the message, the other part in an office in Langley that overlooked the gardens he used to stroll in with a certain British agent. Finally he took a breath as Cynthia spoke, voice lower.

 

“Oh, and Mega? Pick up your fucking phone when I’m calling you.”

 

The call ended at that, a long beep following her words before a mechanical “You have no new messages” was heard. His mind swirled slowly, trying to decipher and assume what she wanted him to do this time around, what kind of mission is in store for him and Simmons. The gears in his brain turned as he stared at the bathroom sink numbly, eyes registering its presence and feel but not its solidity.

 

He’s been stationed in Iraq since the explosion of the Syrian Civil War, and it’s an understatement for him to say that he’s done things in the name of America’s national security and foreign policy. He could vaguely hear the roars of machine gun fire and the Arabic screams of rebels, the begging of men in CIA black sites, the copper smell of blood. He couldn’t help recalling the feel of every gun, every electrical wire, every chain he held in the past four years upon Cynthia’s orders.  

 

He didn’t know how long he stood in front of the mirror before he vaguely registered Simmons shuffling around the safe house, bag crinkling with fresh ingredients as she hummed a song he couldn’t recognize. His flinch rattled over his body and his heart stopped when he felt her hand, smaller and slender, land gently on his shoulder. His movements were too quick for her as he stepped to the side, movements mechanical as he pushed her onto the sink. Soon she was the one bent over it as he blasted the water on her face, pressing her throat against the ceramic. She swore loudly and squirmed before he released her, a jolt in his movements as he realized what was happening. Curt couldn’t look her in the eye as he stepped away to give her space, eyes staring at the bathroom tiles and the beaten up mat underneath his feet.

 

He heard her sigh, heavy and weighted that had shame blossom in his chest. He waited for repercussion and heard none, instead the water burbling in the sink as she washed the scarf. Curt stepped back to give her space until he was at the doorway, leaning on the dirty white wood and watching her hands move. The wrist he grabbed her with was slightly darker.

 

“What set it off?” She finally asked slowly, turning to him as she wrung the water out of the scarf. There’s a barely-there furrow in her brows as he took a moment to understand the question, staring at her dumbly and opening his mouth.

 

It took him a while before he could find the proper words to say, “Cynthia called. We’re needed in Baghdad.”

 

* * *

 

The drive to Baghdad was mostly quiet, Arabic music playing on the radio as they sped down the highway. The sun was relentless with its bright rays of sunshine, and no clouds were in sight in the baby blue sky. The air conditioning was cranked up to keep the interior of the car as cool as possible, but that didn’t seem to stop either Curt or Simmons from sweating bullets. He leaned back in his seat and sighed, checking the time on the dashboard. Five minutes to go.

 

“What could it be about this time?” Simmons asked out loud, feet kicked up on the dashboard. His eyes flicked to her and he scrutinized her choice of footwear: orange socks with bulldogs sticking their tongues out. Subconsciously, his eyes flicked to her choice of her head scarf. It was lavender with white tulips on them. He turned back to the road and listened to her speaking over the radio. "I already submitted the flash drive and parsed through all the data beforehand. Unless they connected it to something, I have no clue as to why we're being called in."

 

Curt hummed and turned down the busy streets, exiting the highway to enter the Iraqi capital. The streets bustled with life and traffic as they entered, and they quickly found themselves in gridlocks and crowds of people. He tapped the driver's wheel numbly and thought to himself, mind still replaying the events of earlier.

 

He never got to say sorry to her.

 

"I don't know," Curt said. He didn’t apologize.  

 

Well, there was time for that later.

 

They turned down the road to enter the Green Zone. Curt immediately noticed the Iraqi soldiers milling the perimeter as they entered, their eyes immediately landing on Curt and Simmons as they made their way through the road. Simmons slowly set her feet down from the dashboard as Curt felt his back straighten, mind running blank as they drove a few more blocks south.

 

The compound came into view. An American marine stopped them at the entrance as another came into view with a German shepherd in tow, the dog barking before its handler shushed it. Curt gripped the steering wheel and waited as they went around the car, popping open the trunk when instructed and rolling down the window to identify himself when asked.

 

Finally they were allowed within the embassy. Curt exhaled and clicked his tongue, “I fucking hate those dogs.”

 

“They’re doing their job, Mega,” Simmons’ tone remained soft as he searched for a parking slot, finding one that was conveniently near the entrance of the administrative facility. He got out of the car as soon as he cut the engine, opening the backseat door to grab his suit jacket. Simmons emerged from her side of the car as he buttoned his coat up, the breeze from the Tigris river ruffling his hair and beard as he turned to her.

 

It’s been a while since he entered the US embassy, what with all the work he had to do around the military bases and black sites around the region. Everything felt alien to him as he passed through security checks and got patted down by a wiry man in a security uniform. If his thin face was hollowed by lack of sleep or lack of food, he wasn’t so sure.

 

The buildings were made of concrete, linoleum, and glass. They were practically bathed in the sunlight as the two walked through the hallways, eerily quiet and lacking the usual noise the embassy had. Every now and then the occasional embassy employee passed by in a rush, nodding at the two before they were off. The place was practically _deserted,_ now that he noticed it, his mind reeling back to the last time when this place was teeming with people who rushed about with purpose.

 

“Where are we going?” His brain clicked to place for a moment and he realized that Cynthia didn’t mention an office to see them in. It always changed whenever they went here, and he didn’t recall her mentioning any when she left the voice message. He turned to Simmons, whose look was steady. Knowing.

 

“To the courtyard, Mega,” Soft. Curt turned to the window panels to see the courtyard, a drab concrete thing that had clusters of plants growing out of huge clay pots. There was only one person in the entirety of it, wearing a khaki suit with  a build too wide to be Cynthia’s. There was something about them that was familiar, something Curt vaguely remembered in a different time. He just didn’t know where.

 

They descended a staircase and they were out in the open, the Tigris river bringing in the hot cool breeze that had Curt’s hair mussed up. He squinted and continued on, regretting that he didn’t bring his sunglasses as the anonymous person turned around and regarded them for a minute. They removed their sunglasses and frowned, and their identity dawned on Curt as he reached for their waiting hand to grasp and shake it.

 

“Susan!” His memory quickly reminded him of Cynthia’s assistant, a frequent background character whenever Curt was brought to Cynthia’s office for a briefing. He broke into a smile as he stepped back and gave them a quick look. It’s been a while since he he’s heard from them. “Last I heard from you, you were about to go on leave for your top surgery.”

 

“It’s good to see you too, Mega,” Susan’s voice is thin, slightly high-pitched as they grinned fully at him as they stepped aside to shake Simmons’ hand as well. They nodded at her attire, “Simmons, you’re being looked for in Parker’s office. It’s just me and Mega here.”

 

“Of course, Susan,” Her tone is warm as she nodded at the duo and spun on her heel, disappearing back into the shade and into the embassy compound’s buildings. Curt watched as she left, a dull something in his chest as he wondered if he should say something. An apology, maybe. For earlier.

 

Behind him, Susan piped up and snickered, “Your beard looks like shit, by the way.”

 

“It’s a fine beard, Susan,” He didn’t grant them the satisfaction of agreeing with that and instead gave them a dirty look, even if there was no heat to it. His hand reached up to subconsciously rub it as he continued, “What’s this about, Susan? Cynthia usually does the briefing.”

 

“With the current tensions going on with Iran, Director Houston couldn’t come here to brief you personally,” Oh, he forgot that. He schooled his face and waited patiently as Susan continued. The wind obscured their words a little, but Curt easily heard them nonetheless as they spoke, tone light and lilting despite the seriousness of the topic. “There’s been developments from your past case, Chimera.”

 

He stilled. Susan’s face was placid, not a single emotion on it, and Curt wondered why they didn’t become an operative. His mind tried to recall the last time he heard that name — four years ago, half a year before he was deployed to Syria, in the presence of a taller agent whose eyes were bright and accent was rich.

 

He ignored the twinge in his chest and spoke, voice sounding alien. “What about Chimera?”

 

“Let’s walk and talk about it,” Susan said, nodding at Curt before they turned and started walking around the courtyard. Curt followed after them, watching them steadily as they took in the flowers that bloomed in the large clay pots, a mix of red yucca and striped squill flowers that swayed with the wind. It took Curt a minute to realize that the grounds were scattered in their petals. “For the past four years we’ve been trying to find evidence that Chimera is still up to something after they went underground. Just recently we got our breakthrough when a certain Dr. Baron von dem Knesebeck-”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” The surname didn’t process in his brain. They stopped their walk and glared up at Curt as he shifted his stance and leaned forward, trying to make sense of what Susan just said. “Dr. Baron von what?”

 

Susan raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by Curt’s confusion. “Dr. Baron von dem Knesebeck. He has a doctorate in political science and is known to strongly sympathize with neo-Nazi ideology-”

 

Curt raised a hand and frowned, clearly bristled, “I’m just gonna cut you off and call him Dr. Baron von Nazi, because I’m not going to remember that surname even if it’s the last thing I ever hear-”

 

“As I was saying,” Susan gave him a firm look that indicated that they wanted to talk, and Curt promptly shut his mouth to give them that chance. “Since Sergio Santos is by far our only link to Chimera, we’re putting you on the case to get closer to him and gather intel.”

 

Cases involving Chimera usually winded up being a collaboration with MI6, who is also hellbent on shutting down the organization once and for all. The logic was there: the CIA was known within the intelligence community for its reach in the international playing field, and the MI6 was known for its near imperceptible movements. The combination of power and stealth made the collaboration every spy’s wet dream, and anyone would kill to be part of collaborative operations such as those to have the bragging rights.

 

Curt is one of the lucky few who got to work in them frequently, much to the jealousy of many. It’s in those missions that he got to meet Owen Carvour, a bright and brilliant MI6 agent who never failed to put a smile on his face.

 

Shit. Back to the task at hand.

 

“So you’re sending me back?” It was a stupid thing to ask, but he asked it nonetheless. Susan nodded serenely and placed both hands behind their back as Curt turned to them, not even bothering to hide the smile on his face. _Finally_ he got to go home and back to familiar grounds, where he didn’t have to sleep on a creaky couch and wonder what the next operation would be with the Iraqi. He couldn’t wait to go home. “What about Simmons?”

 

“Simmons will also be flying back to Langley with you tomorrow at 0500,” Susan smiled and thrusted a hand forward for Curt to shake. He slowly reached it and shook it. “Director Houston will be expecting you as soon as you’ve landed.”

 

He reached over and delicately got Susan in a half-embrace, careful with their chest. They radiate warmth and cologne. “Thank you, Susan.”

 

“Of course, Mega, that will be all.” Susan pulled away and nodded before turning away, continuing their stroll around the courtyard. They paused once to regard the flowers and their scattered petals around its pot. They didn’t even notice as Curt watched them for a moment before he turned away to give them their privacy.

 

Curt left the courtyard in high spirits.  

 

* * *

 

On the drive back to Khalis, Curt and Simmons picked up some shawarma from a place in Baghdad upon her insistence. She insisted that she wanted that to be their last meal in the country, and he couldn’t say no to her when she pleaded and pouted when he gave her a dry look.

 

They made quick work packing up the safe house. Parker told Simmons that a team was already flying in to move into it as soon as they were out, so they could leave stuff like the food and some of the appliances they bought. Their bags were already stashed at the foyer, Curt’s duffle bags on top of Simmons’ equipment boxes and backpack. The living room and bulletin board were barren of any indications that they lived there, and the place finally looked so empty that it unnerved him.

 

They ate in the kitchen, wolfing down the shawarma with quick bites. Curt tipped back a bottle of beer and polished it off, setting it down and exhaling loudly. Simmons watched from the other side, seated on the counter and swishing a glass of red wine. They found some while on the drive and she also insisted on getting that.

 

“You’re gonna be absolutely wasted in the plane ride tomorrow, you know,” Simmons snorted as she sniffed the wine and took a long sip, watching Curt steadily as he shrugged and grabbed another. She didn’t seem fazed when he opened the bottle and took a long swig of it.

 

“That’s the point,” He reasoned and took another bite from the shawarma. He washed it down with another swig, “Makes sleeping on it easier. Say, what’s gonna happen to you when we get back?”

 

“Go back to the standard 9-5 in Langley,” She shrugged, casual as she finished the glass of wine to pour herself a new one. “They want me to decrypt all the data we’re getting from other teams stationed in the region.” “Sounds boring,” He frowned and set his beer down, leaning over the counter and tilting his head at Simmons. She wore loose clothing, an old shirt and yoga pants, the headscarf still secure around her head. Her face was wiped clean of the morning’s makeup. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to that?”

 

“We can’t all be adrenaline junkies like you, Mega,” She rolled her eyes and drained her wine glass. She reached to grab the wine bottle again when Curt piped up, an arch in his brow.

 

“You’re gonna be absolutely wasted in the plane ride tomorrow, you know.” There’s a lopsided grin on his face as she glared at him dryly and poured herself a glass anyway.

 

“That’s the point.” She tilted her head to him and swallowed it all down with one gulp.  

 

* * *

 

They drove to the army camp at 30 minutes before 5, bags stashed in the backseat. Simmons blinked back exhaustion as she worried the ends of her headscarf, a simple black one that had embroidered trimmings along the edges. Curt handed her his stress ball before he started driving, ignoring the concerned look she gave him as he pressed his foot to the pedal.

 

They were directed through security without much fuss, as if they were expectant of their arrival at that hour. Curt eyed the army facilities as they drove by, darkened signs unreadable in the dull lighting. He was functioning primarily on pure force of will and caffeine as he maneuvered by memory towards the tarmac, where surely a soldier or two would be waiting for them at the gates.

 

Curt parked them a few meters away from a cargo plane, its lights twinkling every now and then. Its engine roared as he and Simmons stepped out, air whipping his hair around as he reached to the back of the car to pull out their luggage. From there it was quick work moving from the car to the fuselage, taking only three trips before there was nothing left to take. The soldier that assisted them merely saluted them before disappearing into the base’s darkness.

 

“Good morning, folks!” Simmons and Curt turned towards the plane to see the pilot emerge, a bright-eyed man in his mid-twenties with a visible stubble. He raised his hands and grinned, “Looks like you have the plane all to yourself. Y’all must be real important people.”

 

“If that’s what they call us back in Langley,” Simmons muttered as she set her backpack down and flopped down on a chair. She strapped herself in as the pilot disappeared back into the cockpit, mumbling something to herself about papers as Curt looked around for a suitable place to sit down in. He settled with taking the spot a seat or two away from Simmons’ own, strapping himself in as the door started pulling up.

 

He gave the sky one more look as it disappeared from view, sun peaking out from the horizon as the sky was a brilliant yellow. The clouds were dark, billowing out and welcoming the sunlight in dark greys.

 

Dawn breaks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is based on the song used for this chapter: Feeling Good - Muse. Please give it a listen! It's mainly used for the plane ride.
> 
> Now for some lore/facts:  
> \- Neither Curt nor Simmons are referred to by any titles on purpose. This may be explained in future chapters.  
> \- Susan really out here saying trans rights  
> \- The US Embassy in Baghdad is known as one of the biggest embasies in the world. It's currently on evacuation orders amid tensions in the Gulf area, hence the desertedness.  
> \- Red yucca and puschkinia flowers are found around the Middle Eastern region and are very pretty, please give them a look!
> 
> Kindly leave your reviews and kudos, thank you very much for reading!


	2. doesn't make sense (but it makes dollars)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers: Episodes of dissociation, minor mentions of blood, torture, and panic attacks. Please tread carefully!
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos! I hope y'all enjoy this little project uwu 
> 
> Yes there is a Discord!! You may go to tumblr and look for @saf-discord for requests for the link if you'd like to join our humble abode 
> 
> Again, thank you to my betas Percy and Lilly!! Y'all are what keep me from dying with all the shit that goes on in my head lmao

Contrary to what either of them thought, neither fell asleep throughout the 12-hour flight.

 

Well, not for long, anyway. When Curt drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of Owen and his lopsided smiles, the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed and how his accented words struck him squarely on the chest. His mind brought him back to their last mission in Berlin, when they watched the Chimera stronghold go up in flames in a loud explosion. The way Owen's eyes danced in the fire when he turned to Curt had him screaming his way back to reality, scrambling to loosen the seat belt locking him to the chair. He can't explain to Simmons why a memory of Owen had him screaming. He had no idea why either.

When Simmons closed her eyes, she dreamed of Aleppo and its deserted streets, and she always woke up yelling orders for people to get away. Curt was sitting on the plane's metal floor when she frantically yelled at him in Arabic if he was alright, getting on her knees and patting him down until she realized they were on a plane thousands of kilometers above ground. After that she retreated to the equipment boxes and kept to herself, finding solace in tinkering with the equipment on her.

 

Neither tried to talk about it. They didn't have to; they're familiar with each other's screams. Simmons knew Curt's fear of sleeping after field missions, understood why he needed a bottle or two of beer in him to wrangle down a full hour of dreamless drifting. Curt understood why Simmons found comfort in the hectic district's chatter, knew why she hated when it grew still in the night and turned the place into a ghost town.

 

On hour 10 of their flight, Curt was stretched over three seats while listening to one of his old playlists, made four years ago when he was about to leave for Syria. Simmons was still on the floor, screwdriver in one hand and disassembled motherboard in another. They existed in mutual silence before turbulence struck the hull, prompting him to reach for the military netting draped over the seats as the lights flickered overhead. A quick glance saw Simmons curling into her equipment, gripping the slots on the floor before it stilled as the shaking stopped.

 

“You alright, Simmons?” He righted himself and watched her steadily as she unfurled from her position over the boxes. The look in her eyes is wild, made of frantic energy, and for a moment he thought he had to repeat the question before she opened her mouth to speak.

 

“This is a really fucked up world, huh Mega?” He didn’t expect it. He sat back in stunned silence as she kept her eyes on him, big and dark in the dull lighting of the hull. The lights flickered once more as turbulence shook, and he watched as she ducked from something hidden and folded into herself. He closed his eyes and listened carefully, amidst the noise of the metal rattling for her breathing, shaky and unsure. “When I close my eyes, I see Aleppo — Idlib, sometimes. I see the bodies and I hear the silence and _nothing_ else. Who has the soul to do that? Who in their right mind would do such a thing?”

 

“They don’t,” He said quietly, turning away to stare across the hull and give her some privacy. He listened as she returned to her former position, not letting it show that he’s noticed her choked back sobs and sniffling. He didn’t know how best to console her, how to explain that he had the same nightmares, just not of Aleppo. He didn’t know how to tell her that he was haunted by the near misses and almosts, by a laugh and face he thought he’d never see again. He couldn’t explain to her why he still hated being touched despite everything that’s happened. He failed to find the words to say anything to her and instead raised his hand and threw his stress ball. Curt watched numbly as it sailed across the hull and thunked against the wall, bouncing on the floor before returning to his hand.

 

He did it again and again until he lost sense of when she stopped crying, when the pilot announced they were landing, and when they started to lurch downwards. He was only brought back to reality when the ball didn’t come back to him, summoned by gravity as it fell forward into the hull.

 

He watched it go as it sailed through the air, bouncing on the wall twice before settling.

 

* * *

 

She stood at the top of the staircase with a generally displeased expression on her face, eyes carrying an unspoken challenge for either of them to step out of line and face her wrath. She was poised with one hand on her hip, the other holding an unlit cigarette between manicured fingers. Every inch of her radiated a recent Washington meeting, from the darkened shade of lipstick she picked to the suit made of muted blues. The floor to ceiling windows behind her casted her shadow over the stairs, and if she tilted her head back her hazel eyes became molten lava and impending hellfire.

 

She clicked her tongue once, gaze scrutinizing, and spoke. “You two look like shit.”

 

Her name is Cynthia Houston. If she wasn’t his superior he’d have called her the bastard child of Satan.

 

“We weren’t exactly given time to take a shower in the air base,” Simmons said, tone careful and measured. She clearly knew that it was better to tread carefully around their superior, especially when it’s evident that she’s just gotten out of a White House meeting. Curt turned quickly to her and nudged her with his foot, an unspoken jab in his eyes before he turned back to Cynthia, who remained unamused by the exchange. He’s frankly too tired to watch her open the gates of hell on them. Simmons cleared her throat and shifted on her feet, “Ma’am.”

 

“Well, that's a shame,” Dismissive. She looked down and pocketed her cigarette, moves delicate as she slowly made her way down the staircase. Her heels clicked against the flooring, echoing throughout the hall's walls. Curt realized then that no one else was around the hallways or the staircase, and it was just the two of them and Cynthia. He wanted to think of it as a coincidence and solely that. “Simmons, your request for leave has been authorized. A shuttle is waiting outside to take you to any destination of your choice after you finish some papers. As for you—”

 

He didn’t mean to freeze up, but he did nonetheless as he waited for what she had to say. Cynthia stepped in front of him and made a face, flicking away something invisible in front of her before turning to him fully and staring directly at him. Curt waited in silence until she ran fingers through his beard, fingers catching on wild curls and pulling slightly. He felt a full flinch rattle through his body as he jumped away from her hand and yelped.

 

“Get that fucking fungus off of your face, Mega, Jesus!” Cynthia made a face as she shook her head and stepped away, making a disgusted noise as she pivoted back to him and frowned. "That's no way to present yourself in front of Agent Carvour!"

 

He ran fingers through his beard mostly to rearrange it, ignoring a smaller shudder that went through his chest. He hadn't even realized that he would be seeing Owen personally so soon; he hadn't even decided what to say to him. What do you say, even, to someone you haven't seen personally in the past four years? What is he even allowed to tell him?

 

"In my defense, it's an awesome beard," Curt frowned and offered a sweet smile to Cynthia, who didn't believe him for one bit. He ignored his own grittiness and exhaustion to watch her heave a sigh and shake her head disappointedly. Something buzzed in her pocket and she took it, nails tapping over the phone's screen. He caught the miniature icon of Owen.

 

"Must be a craze for you Middle East stationed shits to grow one, anyway." She muttered, "Makes you feel more man than you actually are — anyway, you better shower and clean up that fungus face of yours before your physical. I don't want Carvour fainting in my headquarters when he smells you. Simmons, you need to go to debrief before you go back to Philadelphia. Tell your mother I said hi."

 

With that she pivoted away and ascended the staircase, the clicking of her heels reverberating around the hall before she disappeared down a hallway. Curt turned to Simmons and gave her one look before he reached a hand out. He watched the micro shift in her expression as she hesitated for a moment, a touch of wariness in her gestures before she reached out and gingerly shook his hand. Her touch was too quick and fleeting for him to even savor the touch.

 

"Didn't even tell me you requested for leave, you little shit," Curt muttered, a small smile on his lips as Simmons beamed innocently. Light casted shadows on her face and for a moment she looked exhausted, tired from the trip back to the stateside, but nonetheless relieved to be back on familiar ground. "I'll miss you."

 

"Don't get sappy on me, Mega, or else I'll start crying again," She giggled. He watched as her arms twitched forward only to pause, once more hesitant to touch him. He ignored the pang of guilt in his chest and reached towards her, awkwardly enveloping her in a barely there hug. He slumped his shoulders and waited for her to reciprocate his hug, feeling smaller arms around his middle. There were traces of the lavender scent of her body wash still on her shoulders. “I’ll see you soon, you big baby, no need for this.

 

“I’m sorry.” It burbled out of his chest. He couldn’t contain it. He’s helpfully reminded by his brain of the way she screamed and twisted underneath him in a struggle to escape his grip, the way the bathroom echoed the scream to rattle the room around them. What could have happened if he hadn’t snapped out of it earlier, what would she have had to resort to just to keep herself alive?

 

It twisted something in his gut.

 

“For what?” He felt her head shift, maybe trying to turn to look up at him. He kept his gaze straight ahead and couldn’t dare to look her in the eye. He felt like he can break.

 

“I almost killed you.”

 

“Oh please, Mega,” She finally pulled away and looked up to him, a beam on her face, “We both know you wouldn’t let me die.”

 

* * *

 

For Owen, it’s always good to hear from Cynthia again after a long time of not hearing from her, haughty soprano echoing around the hallways accentuated by the staccato of her heels. She babbled with him about all of the latest developments in their side of the Atlantic, how the politics was driving her mad with the latest bullshittery of the Cheeto in the White House (he had the same sentiments). She was still the same Cynthia he’s known for the past decade or so, the same snippy superior who was bluntly honest about everything regardless who it was. It was a comfort to have her around, something to stave off the butterflies dancing around his stomach. They seem to be a constant since he stepped into the plane.

 

He adjusted his tie and caught a vague reflection of himself in the glass panelling. Damn, he looked good.

“Cynthia, dear, I’m sorry for cutting in,” Owen started, a crooked smile on his face as Cynthia turned to him and had eyes on him. On bad days, her eyes glowed to become hellfire, making her glares capable of burning down any city and unfortunate intelligence officer within its general direction. Currently, her eyes gleamed golden with the energy of a woman who’s welcoming an old friend. “But I would like to know where my partner is at the moment. It’s been a while, you see.”

 

“Ah, Mega. He’s undergoing his physical.” Something passed over her face that registered to him as a grimace. He tried not to read too much into it, ignoring pangs of worry as they came up and squashing them down with professionalism. A spark of mischief glinted in her eyes as she chuckled, “You should have seen him, he has this stupid fucking beard on his face that made him look like an overused loofah.”

 

He didn’t know what to make of her comment as they stopped before a pair of doors. It was only then that he realized they were in a different section of the Langley headquarters, one he hardly visited. He usually navigated the Directorate of Operations’ offices, tucked deep within the agency’s arteries behind discreet doors secured by pin codes and fingerprint scanners. He gave the hallway a once over and realized that some of the employees in this wing were wearing gym clothes.

 

Honestly, he even had no idea what he was expecting when they stepped into the pool area. The distinct smell of chlorine permeated all over the place, and he immediately noticed a pair of officers in scrubs hunched over a laptop in one of the benches. His eyes immediately found the solitary figure halfway through the swimming pool, a blur of motion with a body frame familiar enough for him to identify.

 

There he was, Curt Mega.

 

“This should take a moment.” Cynthia said as she pulled out her phone and tapped something into it, a cursory glance over her shoulder indicating a conversation with Barb, most likely to inform her that they’ll be coming down in a moment. His gaze turned back to watch as Curt cut through the water, made of muscle and grace that rippled the pool. He looked at the two officers to the side and watched their expressions, before the pair turned to Cynthia and nodded. Owen turned too fast when he heard water splashing to his side.

 

To describe Curt Mega was… difficult. Floppy curls were soaked and pressed against his forehead, water droplets falling over eyelashes and dripping off of his nose. His chin was covered in a beard that matched Cynthia’s description perfectly, gleaming with water and dripping. The barest of hair appeared on his chest, disappearing and reappearing just below his belly button. Finely defined muscles, drenched with pool water, made an appearance with every minute movement he made. Multiple wires crawled around his body and pressed on his chest, neck, and abdomen, a box clipped to his waistband. Various scars littered his body — some old ones Owen knew of and too many new ones that it concerned him. If he stared hard enough he could see tiger stripes peeking out of his swimming trunks, darker than his skin and prominent under the artificial lighting. Owen pulled his gaze away before he allowed himself to look at, uh, other things like what was underneath Curt’s trunks.

 

He looked up to Curt, who already had his eyes on him. Those eyes burned with unspoken fire. Danger.

 

 _Fuck_ , Owen’s hooked.

 

Beside him, Cynthia hummed and deposited her phone in her pocket. He glanced at her briefly to see that her eyes were on him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She was so obviously amused in his apparent flusteredness as she muttered, “Oh, god save the queer.”

 

Owen didn’t even bother to grace her comment with a reply. He swallowed back a lump in his throat and turned back to Curt, fighting the urge to licks his lips. They suddenly felt too dry. “Curt.”

 

Curt only offered him a nod as a medical officer came forward with a towel for him. Owen watched as the man proceeded to ruffle his hair with it, patting it over his face and body. His hair was a mess of tousled curls that flopped slightly over one eye, and Owen wanted so badly to reach forward and tuck it behind Curt's ear. Curt then proceeded to run a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. _God_ , Owen wished it could be his hand in Curt’s hair instead; he wished he could run his hands over every part of Curt’s body. He forced himself to curl his hands into fists to quell the urge to do so.

 

How was he supposed to survive living with this sight everyday for the next few weeks, perhaps months? Sure, he could get used to it eventually, maybe become desensitized to the sight of a shirtless and dripping wet Curt Mega, but it’d be some sort of sin if that day ever came. He chewed the inside of his cheek and cursed the heavens and whoever was there to listen. There has to be some higher power up there fucking around with Owen’s feelings and presenting him a chance to be with Curt, with no repercussions or strings attached.

 

“As soon as you’re dressed, the two of you will be headed straight to Barb’s lab,” Cynthia said, nodding at Curt as he turned to her. Her voice carried a distinct sweetness that warned him that she was teasing him, possessing a faux quality of a friend (superior, in this case) who's trying to set two people up. He tried not to roll his eyes. "Be a darling and guide Owen to it, hm? It has been a while.”

 

Sure, _a while_. In the few years he's worked with Curt on Chimera cases, he's become familiar with how to navigate key offices of the headquarters. He's achieved some level of muscle memory about it, and can even find his way from Cynthia's office to the medbay half-conscious. He certainly didn't need Curt to guide him around the place, but going by Cynthia’s smug look and raised eyebrows, it was an opportunity for them to catch up and discuss the details of this… mission.

 

Right, the mission.

 

With that, Cynthia excused herself and left alongside the two medical officers, leaving the two of them at the edge of pool. Owen swallowed back a lump in his throat once more and stood dumbly, watching Curt as the man twiddled with the end of the towel. He couldn’t stop himself from cataloging the new scars that had appeared on Curt’s skin, from the irritated patches on the sides of his ribs to the jagged lines faintly appearing on his biceps.

 

“I just need to take a quick shower and then we can get going,” It took every ounce of both training and force of will not to close his eyes to relish that familiar rumble, a voice he hasn’t heard in months, years even. Owen fought the urge to smile too widely as he nodded, watching as Curt turned to make his way to the shower rooms. He tried not to follow, instead turning away and staring ahead at the wall across him.

 

This’ll be a long day.

 

* * *

 

Compared to the ice cold water of the swimming pool, the shower water was hot, almost scalding. It was a sweet luxury for Curt, a moment to relish, especially since their safe house hardly had enough water for both him and Simmons. It beat down Curt’s shoulders and slid down his back. The heat was all he could feel at the moment, the way it numbed his jetlagged muscles and drew his mind to a blank. It was a soothing balm that calmed him for a moment, centered him and reminded him that he was in Langley and not somewhere in the Middle East. He inhaled the warm steam and numbly ran the bar of soap through his fingers, letting it glide over his skin with its clean scent.

 

His eyes fell towards the drain, listening to the quiet bubbling noise it made as the water drained into it. His mind swirled with the details of the mission, relayed to him by Cynthia as he underwent the physical checkup with the CIA doctor an hour or two earlier. To get closer to known bomb maker Sergio Santos, the CIA and MI6 paired up their finest agents and stationed them in Manhattan where they can befriend the family and discover Sergio's past, present, and future clients. It's a relatively simple mission, something both Curt Mega and Owen Carvour can pull off without breaking a sweat.

 

If only they weren't doing this while acting like a married couple.

 

That was the current crisis, anyway. Pretending to love Owen Carvour would be child’s play — is it even pretending when he really loved the man with every ounce of his being? He couldn’t even tell when he fell in love with the British agent, when the gears in his head finally clicked and concluded that _this_ was the man he wanted to get to know better over dinner. He wanted to spend time with him in a plush canopy overlooking some beautiful place in Europe, not in a gritty safe house somewhere in the subcontinent. Owen was the man he might as well give his life for, all things considered, he’s just that precious to Curt.

 

He can’t deny that he’s going to savor every second spent “married” to him. He’d do anything to know what it’s like to press his lips on that man’s skin, to know what it’s like waking up next to him during lazy Saturday mornings. He wanted that selfish glee whenever he saw a golden band on Owen’s finger that he had gotten to put there, the blatant excuse to pull him into hugs and nuzzle in nooks he’s always wanted to nuzzle into.

 

He reached into his hair and passed the soap through that, uncaring if there was a perfectly good shampoo bottle on the rack in front of him. Dread settled in his chest as he continued thinking about the finer details of the mission. What would happen when the balance is tipped and he ruins whatever he has with Owen? He’s terrified of getting carried away admiring Owen, of letting the mission slip through his fingertips. Sergio Santos was a reasonably dangerous man who dealt with reasonably dangerous people, who knows how his bombs will be used? Curt’s stomach twisted with the prospect of letting a bomb go off in some major landmark because he was too busy admiring a man who isn’t even his.

 

How does he even compare to Owen Carvour? That is an immaculate man, perfect in every aspect in both the industry’s standards and Curt’s, and _damn it to hell_ he’s jealous that the MI6 managed to pick a man as gorgeous as him. Owen is perfect, a gentleman who can so easily become a suave agent in the flick of the switch, capable of bringing the spotlight on him simply by smiling and waving. He was a caveman, and Owen invented fire. Owen was practically a god compared to him, what could he possibly give this man in return?

 

Curt glanced at himself in the mirror, staring at the darkened circles under his eyes and the barest red in the corners from lack of sleep. He eyed the thickened beard on his face, Cynthia’s comment ringing in his ears. What does Owen see right now, when he looks at Curt? Does he see the killer he truly is, the man in the shadows that many fear? He doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know.

 

Deftly, his fingers reached for the razor stashed on the little rack mounted on the wall, eyes trained on the mirror as he contemplated on how much he’ll shave off. He was too deep in his mind to realize that he wasn’t even holding it right, only returning to his senses when he felt the sharp pain of the blade biting into his skin.

 

Curt pulled away and stared at the red that blossomed on his palm, bright and angry as the scalding water dripped it away.

 

Quietly, he wondered if the first aid kit had bandaids.

 

* * *

 

Barb flitted about the laboratory excitedly, humming with a familiar energy he hasn’t seen in a very long time. She was going off in that familiar high-pitched voice about how she's been testing possible ointments that can speed up healing by at least 10% while on the field. She carried a stirring rod in one hand and flicked it about as if it were a conductor's baton, babbling about how she's excited to get Cynthia's go signal for human testing. She was radiant and filled with limitless energy and excitement to see the two paired off again, unhesitant to ask a question whenever she thought of it.

 

Both he and Curt were perched on two stools set next to a large microscope and computer screen, currently displaying a substance's molecule. Its name was so complex and baffling that neither even tried to read it or make sense of it. A plate of chocolate chip cookies was set before them when they arrived, followed quickly by a bottle of Mountain Dew that materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Owen had reached for a cookie to have some. He hasn't had a meal since he landed.

 

Every now and then he glanced at Curt, whose jaw was set and his eyes staring off to the distance. It didn't even look as if the man was breathing or blinking, merely existing and waiting to be acknowledged or spoken to. It worried Owen to see him like this, not even trying to make conversation since the time he emerged from the shower. His eyes moved to the lick of plaster peeking out of Curt's fist. He couldn't help but wonder what happened to it.

 

Something bothered him about Curt, and he didn't know what or why. During their time working on the Chimera cases the man was jovial, light and easygoing, maybe flirtatious if he had a drink or two in him. He always made sure Owen was having a good time before they continued with the job. When he was sent to the Middle East to do clandestine work, Owen tried to contact Cynthia for updates, incessant to hear from Curt before she gave in and handed him a direct phone number. The way his heart fluttered when he heard that voice all those years ago was a stark memory from that day.

 

Owen was keenly aware that Curt would, one way or the other, be affected by his deployment to the Middle East. It was expected: what he saw, experienced, and witnessed would surely be stuck in his memory for a long time. He knew that there would be consequences, a specific kind of vulnerability that he'll have to see and tend to as the "husband", and he had to be careful and observant of how Curt reacted to him and his touch.

 

It worried him, despite that, despite the knowledge and awareness. He wanted to know what changed him, what turned him into a hollow, listless version of the Curt he knew and adored. Owen wanted to know what happened, what traumatized him to this extent, what he can do to soothe the pain. Whenever he glanced at Curt he wondered about the new scars he saw, how he acquired them. He kept biting back the urge to ask.

 

Who hurt his Curt so much that it changed him?

 

"Alright, here are some tools you'll be needing for your mission!" Coming back to reality with Barb's mildly nasally tone was a jarring experience, but a welcome one nonetheless. Owen blinked back to stare at the array of devices and ordinary objects that littered the desk. He gingerly reached over to pick up a pair of goggles, bringing it up to his face as he eyed the little device mounted on its bridge.

 

“What’s this supposed to be?” Owen asked curiously, putting it on and looking around the laboratory. He felt around the temples and found a tiny button, pressing it and almost falling off his chair when the world became a vision in infrared. He tore it off of his face and the world reverted to normal.

 

“Thermal goggles for possible stakeout missions, Agent Carvour.” Barb grinned and giggled at the incredulous expression on his face. He glanced at the file in front of him and picked it up, leafing through it as she explained to them what they’ll be deployed with.

 

Based on what was written in the file they’d be Nathaniel and Nicholas Carter. Nathaniel was a translator who has just recently been transferred to the British Consulate in New York, and his husband is a veteran who just started working for a bakery called Bread & Brew. A disguise wouldn’t be necessary for either of them seeing as previous missions ensured no one knew what they looked like in real life. They’d be stationed in a townhouse on 50th Avenue in the heart of Manhattan, approximately five minutes from the consulate and seven from the bakery Curt is supposed to be working at. A wedding photo shoot (Curt choked on his Mountain Dew when he heard that) would be scheduled a few days from now, during which they’ll be given their “wedding rings” that doubled as trackers should anything happen.

 

Barb had a lot to offer for them today, with a repertoire of weapons and gizmos to use throughout their mission. She had an assortment of bugs that ranged from tiny contraptions, concealed lapel pins, to sticker-like ones meant to be put on surfaces of the Santos household when they were invited to it. A cigarette lighter concealed a camera in the other end for Owen to use, and a pair of running shoes with a hidden knife blade was made for Curt.

 

“How about this?” Curt piped up next to him, holding up a silver picture frame.

 

Barb practically beamed, “That’s actually a gun.”

 

“ _What?_ ” What he’d do to bottle the emotion that spread across Curt’s face, the pure joy and wonder that twitched his lips upwards as he reached for the picture frame and examined its every side and angle. He was like a child on Christmas morning, questions spilling out of his lips and eyes alight with pure happiness. Owen could only watch with unbridled awe and exasperation, shaking his head good-naturedly as Barb explained the schematics of the unassuming weapon. Leave it to the Americans to turn anything and everything they get their hands on into a gun. It was almost funny.

 

And the way Curt turned to him with unrestrained glee? Owen wished he’d stay happy forever.

 

Besides all of those gizmos, they were given a few knives and handguns for them to stash anywhere in their house. Owen picked up one of the knives and held it up to his face, staring back at his own reflection and the things behind him. The blade caught the light and shone it right onto his face. He set it back down.

 

“I’ll be putting them in a bag for you to bring back to your apartment, Curt.” Barb said cheerfully as she scuttled off in search of a good canvas bag to store everything in. Owen glanced at Curt to see that he was still holding the picture frame, clearly enamored by the prospect of it being a gun. The ghost of a smile was still on his face.

 

"What kind of pictures do you plan on putting in there, love?" Owen asked gently, a fond smile on his face as Curt's back straightened. He didn't know why he reacted that way and watched as Curt turned to him, eyes wide with confusion and wonder for a moment before it smoothened out. He'd call that look mischievous.

 

"Pictures of our wedding," Curt said calmly, a slow smile stretching his lips. That's the Curt he knew. "Our love's a _killer_."

 

Owen whistled lowly and chuckled, his own smile widening. "Gives a whole new meaning to 'love’s a battlefield.'"

 

The two shared a laugh at that, and Owen felt the familiar warmth spread over his chest as he watched Curt and listened to his brilliant laughter.

 

* * *

 

Upon Cynthia's orders, he and Owen had to stay in Curt's apartment in order to familiarize themselves with each other as well as discuss the covers they'll be assuming. Curt initially scoffed at the notion of having to spend time with Owen at his place; this has to be some new sort of method acting bullshit that would have Owen going on a spiel of how he should've been an actor.

 

It settled in, however, when he slid into the driver's seat of the car the CIA let him use for the time being. His apartment has been practically deserted since his deployment to the Middle East, with Tatiana sometimes popping in whenever she needed to lie low and she was in the area. He wasn't even aware of what sort of condition it would be in, no clue what kind of takeout they'll have to get since there'd be no food there. It terrified him to know that Owen would be in close proximity to him in his bedroom, and he hardly ever slept nowadays without waking up screaming.

 

He wasn't ready to explain anything to Owen, not yet.

 

Imagine his pleasant surprise when he saw that his apartment was practically pristine. Not a single mote of dust could be found on any surfaces, the rooms smelled fresh and the furniture seemed clean, and the fridge was stocked with recently bought groceries and food. Hell, the stupid potted plant his mother gave him was still very much alive, nice and green on his living room coffee table. Curt spied a note on the kitchen counter and grabbed it as he listened to Owen carry their bags to his bedroom, taking a moment to recognize the scented stationery. It always seemed to carry its owner's perfume.

 

_Heard you were coming back. Thought of doing some cleaning. -Tati_

 

Silently, he thought to himself that he now owed Tatiana his firstborn.

 

"Curt! If you don't mind, I'll take a shower." Owen called from his bedroom, snapping him out of his thoughts as he turned to listen to the voice. He never thought he'd recognize the fluctuations in the Brit's accent, how it deepened when he was being gentler and how it clipped when he was agitated. Well, must be one of the many things he missed about him. "You can ready up dinner, I'm good with anything."

 

"Don't use up all of the hot water." Curt called back as he stashed the note in his pocket and opened the fridge once more, staring at its contents. There were plastic cases filled with food in one section of the fridge, and a quick check of the handwriting on its labels indicated that they were indeed made by his home invader. He settled that he now owed her his firstborn and his inheritance should he die in the line of duty.

 

"I wouldn't dream of it." He could practically hear the smirk in Owen's words as he continued, "You know, if you're so worried about warm water, we can share."

 

He cannot confirm nor deny that his face flushed. He slammed the fridge shut, "Oh, fuck off!"

 

* * *

 

After a hearty dinner of chili and some bread rolls, the two got ready to go to bed. Curt stared at his own reflection in the mirror and at the varied scars that littered it, irked by the lines that seemed to be enhanced by the lighting overhead. After a quick moment of disgust, he pulled a shirt over his head and stepped out of the bathroom.

 

His mind stuttered to a stop from thinking of whatever was his previous thought when he noticed Owen, who was currently sitting in bed while wearing a pair of boxers. He laid comfortably on the pillows while poring over a crossword puzzle, the rubber end of the eraser touching his lips as he thought to himself. Curt shifted on his feet and took in the nearly unblemished figure of Owen, marred by the occasional old scar.

 

It's as if he hadn't aged a day.

 

"I can put on a shirt, if you're uncomfortable," Gentle words lilted in the man's British accent. Curt snapped to look up to Owen's face, the calmness in the man's expression almost soothing. He hadn't even realized he'd been caught staring. He looked away immediately and grabbed the stress ball on the dresser. "I just know-"

 

"I lived with a female agent in the Middle East," Curt reasoned, feeling the need to explain himself. He squeezed the ball in one hand as he fiddled with his beard with the other. He considered when he ought to shave it. "I didn't want her to be uncomfortable so I got used to wearing shirts when I went to bed."

 

"But do you want me to wear a shirt or not?" Owen asked carefully, observant of his attempt to avoid the question. It’s not like he didn’t want him to pull on a shirt, quite the opposite really, but he would rather not think about what he can do in his sleep with all of that skin exposed. Owen looked like he added on a bit of weight, muscles and stomach not necessarily defined, but natural. Healthy. The hair Owen had on his torso was fine, just _barely_ there. Everything about him now was soft and squishy and _damn it_ Curt is terrified of the prospect of hitting him in his sleep.

 

“Just sleep how you sleep,” Curt finally shrugged and settled into bed, awkwardly shifting his limbs as he and Owen fitted themselves in it. The bed wasn’t necessarily tiny, just a double with a creaky mattress, but Owen had long limbs and Curt had a thicker build. It also didn’t help that he felt like the bed was too soft, that it wasn’t like the couch in Khalis with its stiffness. He practically felt like he can sink into this and he needed to find a position that didn’t make him feel like that.

 

“Look, love, since we can’t find a fit where we’re both comfortable, we might as well cuddle.” Owen said after a few moments of shifting around the mattress, rolling his eyes as Curt looked up to glower at him. “Isn’t that what couples do?”

 

They finally settled with the both of them facing each other, with Owen’s arm stretched out over Curt’s shoulder, and his own arm resting on Owen’s waist. He’s pretty sure this is a standard dancing position in traditional ballroom, but he was far too tired to over analyze the situation and contemplate how he got to this point in his life.

 

Soothed by the tiny circles Owen rubbed on his shoulders, he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

_The room smelled like shit, for lacking of any better terms to describe it, the pungent smell of blood dancing around the humid air. Curt tested the handcuffs that kept him on the chair, wincing as they cut into his wrists and reminded him of his last attempt of getting out of them. Everything about him burned with pain, and he bit back the urge to make a noise about it._

 

_His head was sharply pulled back by his hair, and he let out a sharp curse in Farsi as he glared up at his interrogator, a middle-_ _aged man with a greying beard. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled terrible, and Curt reeled at the sight of his own blood on the man’s tunic. He always hated the sight of his own blood._

 

_“You act so high and mighty, American, but we both know your government will not claim you.” The man hissed into his ear, petting his hair gently as he grinned widely. “They don’t retrieve broken, unnatural things like you.”_

 

* * *

 

Owen was hardly asleep when he first heard the screams. He was immediately awake, senses sharp and alert, and his eyes instantly landed on Curt. Even in the dark, he could tell that Curt was shaking, and Owen tentatively reached forward to shake his partner awake.

 

Sometimes he underestimated Curt, and more often than not he doesn’t mean to. Most of the time he was a really nice guy to be around, gentle and suave with how he went about their job. He hardly even made it seem as if he was actually an intelligence officer; he could practically be anything to anyone who didn’t know him.

 

So imagine his surprise when Curt flipped him onto his back, sitting on his chest with one hand pressed down harshly against his windpipe as another clambered to grab something on the nearby nightstand. Owen struggled to get his weight off of his torso, kicking about the bed as he tried to shout Curt’s name. He reached both of his hands up, straining to see as his vision doubled and spotted, one hand grabbing Curt’s bicep while the other caressed his cheek. The eyes staring down at his were hard, intense.

Killer.

 

"Shit!" Just like that, Curt bolted off of him and away from him, retreating to the bedside to sit and take deep breaths. Owen took in a gasp of air and wheezed, coughing as he blinked back the spots in his sight. His head reeled with the sudden reintroduction to oxygen, and he rubbed his neck gingerly as he sat up and reached out to touch him.

 

"Curt-"

 

“ _Dasteto bekesh!_ ” He blinked back his confusion as his ears registered the foreign words, mind parsing through his knowledge in foreign language to conclude that Curt was speaking in Farsi. His knowledge of the Middle Eastern languages were subpar, but he can understand panic and fear in those words. He gently pulled his hand back and sat up straighter.

 

“English, darling.”

 

“ _Dasteto bekesh!_ ” Curt was visibly distressed as he turned to Owen, repeating the phrase over and over. His eyes were wide open, pain in his expression as tears slid down his cheeks. Owen felt a twinge of hurt in his chest at his partner’s state. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

 

“What do you need, Curt?” He asked gently, slowly turning to get out of the bed. Curt turned away as he slowly padded to where he was, reaching towards the nightstand to turn on the lamp. Curt quickly reached forward to turn it back off. Moonlight was the only thing illuminating the room, and his hunched figure and sober face was all Owen needed to see to tell that he wasn’t alright. Curt mumbled something he couldn’t make sense of. “What was that, love?”

 

“I don’t know.” Curt warbled weakly.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Curt shook his head violently. He seemed to have folded into himself as he quivered, gripping his shirt tightly as he rocked himself gently. Owen’s mind ran through past experiences of this situation, shivering when his mind painted him a picture of small girls curled up in dilapidated buildings. He decided to give Curt the basics.

 

“I think I know what you need.” Owen finally decided as he finally stood, hovering over Curt. His mind was set on making sure he was okay. He’d be damned if he couldn’t at least try to make this man whole again. “A shave.”

 

“My hands are shaking too fucking much for me to hold a damn razor,” Curt spat, looking up at Owen and giving him a dry glare. There it was again, the sharp, knowing look that was on him moments ago. It vaguely reminded him of Cynthia’s. “And I already cut myself trying to do it.”

 

That explained the plaster. Owen shrugged as he immediately thought of a solution. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

 

Curt’s glare hardly faltered. Owen shrugged once more as he turned towards the bathroom, shuffling and rolling his shoulders as he stepped in and switched on the lights. He searched Curt’s cabinets for what was needed: his razor, a beard trimmer to remove the the thick of the it, shaving cream, a hand towel, maybe some aftershave if there was any. He found a half-empty bottle of some and sniffed it. It smelled like ocean breeze, classic and simple.

 

Curt appeared next to him after a moment or so, hunched over the bathroom sink where he splashed his face with warm water and took the beard trimmer to cut back the lengthier parts of his beard. That was an easier part, seeing as those hairs would be farther from his skin, and Owen let him do that part of the routine as he readied the other things.

 

“Sit down.” He made sure the words sounded gentle, but still carried their authority. Curt sat on the toilet seat as he squeezed out a handful of shaving cream onto his palm. He flinched back the first time Owen tried to reach to his face, and he pulled back and waited until Curt glowered at him.

 

“I’m not fine china, Carvour.”

 

“I know.” He spread the cream on Curt’s face, making sure to get every part of the beard covered. Curt’s eyes stared straight ahead, not trying to meet his gaze, and he could feel Curt’s embarrassment with how his skin heated under Owen’s touch. If he pressed down hard enough he could feel how set Curt’s jaw was. After a moment, he stepped back to look at his handiwork. “I’m starting.”

 

“Just get on with it.”

 

He got to work. There’s a certain vulnerability to this moment with the way Curt was hunched over a bit, towel wrapped around his shoulders and eyes looking anywhere but Owen. Owen tried to be as gentle as possible, murmuring for Curt to turn his head, puff out his cheeks, and tilt his head back whenever needed. He tried transmitting every ounce of affection and love he can offer him to his movements, voicing his praises whenever possible.

 

He’ll ask Curt tomorrow, he decided. Whatever was his nightmare, whatever set him off, that can all be answered tomorrow. Owen can be patient; he can wait for when Curt was ready for him to know what happened. He can wait for _forever_ for this man, if it meant in the end he can hold him close and rid him free of whatever demons were plaguing his mind.

 

He wiped away the remaining shaving cream and took the aftershave off of the counter, getting some on his hands and patting it gently on Curt’s face. The scent of the ocean permeated around the bathroom and he took a deep breath in, fighting back a full on smile. “There. All done.”

 

Curt finally looked up at him. Owen had hardly even noticed that he had stopped shaking, too absorbed with the task of shaving his partner. He looked much younger now, more like the Curt of four years ago who flirted and joked around while on the job. His lips curled in such a way that he seemed to have a permanent small smile.

 

This was the Curt that he fell in love with.

 

The gaze he was offered was one that wasn’t sharp, not the look of a traumatized killer who’s seen unspeakable things in the Middle East. His eyes were a soft and brilliant hazel, pupils blown wide open with unspoken gratitude. They were made of vulnerability and openness and Owen felt everything at once, overwhelming and powerful, and he took in a sharp breath.

 

Those eyes looked up to him with utter devotion and awe, and Owen swore to himself in that moment that he would do anything for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facts and lore about this chapter, because Jesus there is a lot to take into consideration:  
> \- The title is derived from Tessa Thompson's "I Will Go to War", soundtrack of Creed 2. I was listening to it a lot while plotting out this chapter and the scene it's designated for is Cynthia's first appearance.  
> \- The exact word count of this thing is 7969 words, achieved by Lilly's brilliant writing. We're very proud of this achievement.  
> \- Yes, "God save the queer" is a play with "God save the queen" of the UK. Yes, Cynthia is jabbing at Owen's blatant crush on Curt. Yes, she has a very well-functioning gaydar. No, she doesn't care if he's MI6 and Curt's CIA.  
> \- All three of us spent too much time glaring at pictures of shirtless Curt Mega and Joey Richter just to get the descriptors right. We know too much.  
> \- "not necessarily defined, but natural. Healthy." is a descriptor for Owen's belly given by our lovely stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)!! Please give her works a read, they're so well-written and we love it!!  
> \- We only lasted to three paragraphs into the torture not because we were all pretty much reeling from writing it and we couldn't do anymore damage without feeling physical pain hence this.  
> \- "Dasteto bekesh!" is Persian for "Get your hands off of me!", translations from Sunny_Moonbeam!! Please read her works too, she's known as one of our angst masters in the server and she is phenomenal!!  
> \- The picture frame gun is a running joke in the Fama (fake marriage) group chat when I wanted to know what kind of object Curt and Owen would have that would be a gun. We might see it in action in the future chapters.  
> \- At around 1am while writing the last few scenes I had no idea what Americans would eat that could be stored in Tupperwares that Tatiana would know how to cook. At around that hour I concluded it could have been chili, at least. This is what happens when you trust an Asian to capture Western culture. 
> 
> Again, please leave your comments and kudos! Thank you very much for reading :)


	3. the idiot with the painted face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No known triggers for this chapter, we worked to make this chapter extra soft.
> 
> I give my love to my betas, Lilly and Percy!! They're so wonderful and brilliant I am love
> 
> For that question about Curt and warbling no, it's not a reference, but the observation is so amusing that it might as well be.
> 
>  
> 
> I forgot to note something from ch2 I'm so so sad  
> \- Simmons has nightmares of Aleppo and Idlib, both of which locations of where chemical attacks have occurred. Countless children have died in those attacks. May they find their peace.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to peskyfeelings for her music suggestion. Please check out her works, it's killer!!

Dawn breaks. Curt was awake before it did.

****

He didn't dream of anything after that, nothing at all. Owen made sure of that by making him swallow some sleeping pills he had on him before they went to bed. He was so soft and gentle when he reasoned with Curt to take them, despite Curt’s initial refusal in fear of becoming dependent on them. Maybe Owen’s voice was what actually got him to sleep. He's almost glad he had Owen.

****

When he woke up he tried moving out of bed, he honestly did. His mind was still groggy and unsure when he first blinked awake, confused with the lacking call to prayer that would've woken him up or the fishy smell of the nearby marketplace. He didn't initially recognize the ceiling he was staring up at, or the soft bed he was on and the British agent draped over him. In fact, his heart jumped and his muscles tensed, ready for whatever intruder was going to walk through the door.

****

But yeah, that's right, _draped_. Curt blinked back confusion when he felt a breath tickle his neck, a warm body pressed close to his own. He took the time to watch his partner in his slumber, allowing himself this moment to take stock of how he looked. Owen must have positioned himself over Curt in his sleep, currently with an arm wrapped around his torso and a leg thrown over to tangle with his own. Owen’s head was on his shoulder, nose digging gently against his chin, lips barely pressed against his collarbone. He could smell Owen’s shampoo every time he took a deep breath in. Curt closed his eyes to relish the wonderfulness of Owen, afraid that one wrong move and he’d be awake and move away.

****

Owen has turned him into his body pillow and in turn became Curt's weighted blanket. He had to admit that he was a little too comfortable, too calmed by this arrangement between them both. The only coherent thought he can muster up now was to stay put and try to get some more rest, to relish this sensation of Owen Carvour making a teddy bear of him. He can keep convincing himself that they were together and actually cuddling for the heck of it, and not for this convoluted mission that hardly made sense. He promptly ignored the pang of ache in his chest upon realizing that none of this was what actually real.

****

Awkwardly, he tried shifting slowly to get into a comfortable position, freezing when his groin brushed against Owen's thigh.

****

Sweet Jesus and every god that has ever been a god in this god forsaken world _, save him._

****

Curt forced his eyes closed and bit back the groan that tried to fight its way up his throat. He can't wake up Owen like this, especially with what happened last night. Sometimes it's easy to forget how long it's been since he had someone in bed with him, what with four suffering years jumping around the Middle East on Cynthia's orders. When it's difficult to forget? Well, that's what his right hand was for.

****

He took a deep breath in and sent a quiet "fuck you" to the universe. There was no way he can embarrass himself any further after last night’s spectacle. The only viable decision now was to get up and _fix this_ before Owen would notice. Curt was about to shift out of bed to go to the bathroom when he felt something solid against his thigh, prompting him to freeze as he once more closed his eyes and fought back the urge to scream. It must be that the universe had sent his "fuck you" back at him.

****

"Curt?" Owen's accent was thick with sleep, drawing out Curt's name as he shifted and frowned minutely, eyes still not yet ready to open up. He groaned and Curt held back a shiver, body reacting too positively to his name being called in that lilting accent. It's hardly even day one of the whole mission and Curt could already tell he was hardly gonna survive it. Hardly. "Curt, love, what are you doing up?"

****

Owen used that endearment a lot, practically on everyone if Curt had the brain cells to think back to it. He's heard Owen call his siblings, his cat, even his own superior by that term, regardless if he's being chewed out or not. When he says it to Curt, however, he could swear there's something else to it, a different tone and weight compared to his other usages of love. It didn't hold the distinct fondness he'd offer to his siblings, nor the unbridled affection he'd give his cat, not even the honesty he'd try on his boss. It just… sounded different, a combination of every aspect and another something that Curt can't understand.

****

No, he's just imagining things. Owen would never love a guy like him.

****

But it never hurts to dream.

****

"I'm just getting up to get the coffee machine starting, hun," It slipped out too fast for him to check himself. Curt tensed and waited for Owen to say anything about what he said, holding his breath as he wondered what sort of teasing he’d get. He finally heard Owen groan once more as he shifted away from his side reluctantly. He tried not to let his eyes roll back into its sockets from the sound. It did nothing good for his morning wood.  

****

"Just a black for me. please." Owen murmured, accent dampening the words as he grabbed a pillow to wrap his limbs around. The man was practically a koala, needy for something to wrap his limbs around. Curt couldn't help but appreciate the soft expression on his face, the tiny furrow between his eyebrows and the way his cheek flattened against the pillow. His hair was a mild mess with the lack of gel pulling it back. He wished he could take a picture. "Jetlag headache."

****

"Ah." He nodded stiffly and got out of the bed altogether. He regretted stepping away from Owen, lingering at the foot of the bed for a moment longer to watch him twitch his nose and settle comfortably in his position. He watched as that frown smoothened over his face and he was back to sleeping soundly, barely snoring unless Curt listened clearly.

****

Finally shaking his head to get rid of any temptations to go back to bed, he turned and shuffled awkwardly out of the room.

****

* * *

****

An hour after getting out of bed (with 20 or so minutes spent in the bathroom), Curt managed to pull together a complete breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. It didn’t take much to pry Owen out of the bed; he only had to show up with a cup of black coffee to stir him from his sleep. From there it was a quick breakfast in silence, both too busy eating through their jetlag to make conversation. There was time for that later.

****

Here were the details of the current situation: One, Owen Carvour remained shirtless throughout the entire time and didn’t even bother to pull on a shirt, simply reasoning that “husbands shouldn’t be bothered by the other’s nudity.” Two, they were currently stretched out on Curt’s living room couch, the both of them poring over their own dossiers. Every now and then Curt would glance to the side to see which part Owen was on.

****

Three, Owen’s stomach looked _really_ squishy.

****

"So Nathaniel and Nicholas Carter." Owen slapped the dossier close and set it off to the side, turning to Curt and quirking his eyebrows up. There was a way his accent twisted the names to sound posher than they actually are, and Curt tried not to relish the sound of it. He can’t keep swooning when his “husband” is calling him by a name that isn’t even his. Curt turned to him, offering his rapt attention. “Been married since 2015. Known each other since… well, I think we can start there.”

****

“Let’s keep it easy. 2009. Spring.” That was the truth, well, semi-truth. He and Owen met in the spring of 2009, when Curt had a few months under his belt and Owen barely had a year under his own. It was purely accidental, a hit or miss situation, but one that Curt was grateful for nonetheless. He can still remember the way Cynthia chewed him out for interacting with a foreign spy. It was the first time he witnessed the full force of her fury. “Geneva. Nick was  travelling around Europe before he got deployed and Nate just wanted a drink after a long day at work.”

****

Owen fought back the urge to smile, quickly picking up on how they’re going to approach building this backstory. They did meet in Geneva for the first time, during the World Peace Gala involving the debut of some new Slavic country and their dumb prince. Owen could hardly recall the full name of the country or their leader, too busy paying attention to the overhead walkway for anyone who’d be of suspicion.

****

“So they met at a bar?”

****

“Pretty much.” Curt shrugged innocently and leaned back on the couch, a mischievous smile gracing his lips. “Nick just accidentally spilled some wine on Nate’s suit. The rest is history.”

****

He laughed at that, a rich sound that burbled from his chest and tumbled out his mouth. It’s been a while since he had a good laugh like that, the last time being… he had no idea when. He did remember spilling liquor on Owen’s suit, but only because he was suspicious of his and needed an excuse to pat him down to check for a weapon. It was awkward when they both found out that they were on the same mission.

****

As he said, the rest was history.

****

“We can tie it down and make them a long distance relationship couple.” That was the only obvious part of their cover. It didn’t even have to be mentioned. Owen steepled his fingers and rested them against his chin, thinking of possible ways to spin their story. God, he should have been an actor. “Their first date was over Skype.”

****

“And it was a disaster.” Curt nodded along, recalling their first conversation over the intelligence community’s secure channels all those years ago. He was about to go deep undercover in Tehran while Owen just got approved for leave after his mission in Rome. They could hardly hear each other over the haze of static and disconnection. A satellite apparently went down that day.

****

“Who proposed?” Owen asked after a moment of pondering.

****

Curt scoffed and smirked at him, “Me, of course.”

****

Owen shook his head good-naturedly and turned away, picking up his dossier once more to study it. God, he _wished._

****

* * *

****

This was their game for the rest of the day and the days following it: a question pops out of nowhere and one of them has to answer it, typically Curt. Owen reasoned that it was because the sporadic appearance required them to think quick, makes the thought more genuine. Another bullshit method acting trick Curt didn’t understand.

****

Besides that, they learned how to call each other by their cover names and act like husband and husband. Owen learned that Curt didn’t like getting touched out of nowhere, for reasons he wouldn’t be told about. He always tensed whenever Owen tried to touch him, always squirmed out of his grasp, and constantly made excuses about how he hated surprises. He knew nonetheless, when Curt turned away and returned to his work, that it wasn’t because of that.  

****

Curt quickly found out that Owen sang in the shower and that he took forever to get out, forcing him to pound on the door and demand he got out. He always sulked whenever he stepped out of the shower and allowed Curt through. He found that it irritated and amused him.

****

Currently, Curt was bent over the kitchen sink with the dishes. Dinner was spaghetti and meatballs, a recipe he learned from his mother a long time ago. Owen snuck up behind him and wrapped his arms around his middle, nuzzling into his shoulder and sighing dramatically. Curt tensed and used every ounce of his energy now to turn the fork in his hand into a weapon.

****

Owen’s words were softly murmured into his shoulder blade. “How many tours did you go on, darling?”

****

Curt closed his eyes. _It’s just for the mission._ “Two. One in Afghanistan, another in Syria.”

****

Owen practically purred, and he could feel the slow glide of his cheek against his skin. “Nick, you’re being too tense. What did you do in Afghanistan and Syria, love?”

****

“What else do people do there?” _Besides run away and die._

****

“Hmm.” Owen stepped back, retracting his hands until they were on Curt’s waist. “Fair answer.”

****

* * *

****

It’s day three when the CIA sends them two nondescript boxes filled with pocket litter.

****

They’re in their living room now (their being the working term, they’re trying to learn how to refer to Curt’s apartment as their own), sitting on the floor and unboxing them like children on Christmas morning. Brunch was blueberry scones and French toast (made by Owen) with a Bloody Mary or two (made by Curt).

****

They picked apart their stuff together. Both he and Owen had MetroCards for the NYC Subway, some credit cards, and multiple membership IDs Owen had a slightly worn down blue lanyard of the British Consulate, his ID declaring him a translator with Level 4 clearance. Curt had faded dog tags with one rubber missing, then a VA card freshly laminated. Owen had an alumni card from St. Andrews and Curt scoffed at him when he saw it.

****

"That's so bougie, Nate."

****

"Oh please, Nick. It was hell."

****

Curt didn't know what to make of that.

****

They continued. The CIA gave Curt an assortment of military ribbons and plates (one of which was a Congressional Medal of Honor, goddamn) for him to pin to his uniform. They were made of sharp edges and sharper pins, reminding Curt of his past and making him wince at how they'll feel against his chest. Owen got a tiny box filled with lapel pins, all of which were equipped with a tracker. He eyed one that was the rainbow flag and did not question any further.

****

It surprised him to find a set of picture frames and photo albums at the bottom. They weren't the ones disguised as guns, unfortunately. They both pulled the albums out at the same time and pored over them. There were pictures of Owen in his college years, having fun in dorm parties or messing around with his classmates. There were pictures of Curt fooling around with his unit somewhere in the Middle East, posing for group pictures whenever they had the time. He had no idea who any of these people are and was frankly too afraid to know how they were fabricated.

****

After a moment or two, Curt frowned and turned to Owen, "You actually went to St. Andrews?"

****

Owen hummed and nodded, turning to him with a small grin. There's a look on his face that indicated that whatever was in the album was genuine, a real trip down memory lane. “Yeah. Barely graduated with a 2:1, thank God I did."

****

Curt's frown deepened. He didn't understand any of that. Owen, unfazed by that question, decided that then was a good time to ask his own.

****

“Do you want children?” His mind drew a blank at that one. At this point he's gotten a handle of who Nick Carter is ("a less chaotic, somewhat reasonable version of Curt Mega" Tatiana had quipped), but he now had no idea how to respond as both himself and Nick. Curt blinked as he tried to find a viable answer as Owen added. "I meant as Nick, not you personally."

****

Thing is, the lines were blurred there. The CIA gave him a cover that matched what his actual life was like, one he can play into too easily without thinking twice. His own life was a template for who Nick was, with bits and pieces of himself cut off or exchanged for something else just so that there's still something to distinguish between them. In the span of three days, he's gotten in deep with who he's supposed to be, a loving husband equal parts docile and dangerous. He's mastered what he had to say and how he ought to act, learned how to be Nick Carter rather than Curt Mega.

****

He can't answer that question as either men. He had to answer as both would. “Just one. If we want another, so be it.”

****

Clearly, Owen was surprised. He pursed his lips and hummed as he eyed Curt, steadily assessing if his answer was within character. Of course it's Owen who'd be so scrutinizing about the way they designed their cover stories. This was practically his play time. “Do you want them to be a girl or a boy?”

****

What would it matter? Curt leaned back against the coffee table and took in a deep breath, analyzing his chances before turning to Owen and looking him squarely in the eye.

****

“I just want them to be good.”

****

* * *

****

Sometimes they have good nights. When Owen got to convince Curt to take some sleeping pills, he slept like a baby, getting a full 8 hours without much fuss. Despite those odds, he still made sure to wrap his limbs around the man to make sure he felt safe and secure, loose enough that he can bat Owen away and tight enough that he's somewhat weighed down. And if giving Curt comfort gave Owen an excuse to steal the affection he wished were real, no one had to know.

****

They had 2 days without any night time incidents. Owen can remember how Curt apologized profusely all those days ago when he emerged from their bedroom, recalled how he shuffled his weight between his feet and didn’t dare look him in the eye. He had smiled and patted Curt in the cheek after that, reassuring that everything was fine and that all was forgiven. On the bright side, it assured him that Curt’s reflexes were still fast enough to neutralize targets.

****

Later, when he stepped into the bathroom to examine himself, he found parts of his neck bruising.

****

Well. He knew one or two ways to spin it.

****

Tonight was a relatively tame one. Curt turned in early simply because he felt exhausted that day (going over pocket litter and files was so draining) and Owen was reading one of the books he brought with him. Half an hour in Curt started shaking and thrashing about, sitting up and staring ahead in search of something neither man can see. Owen could do nothing but wait until he snapped out of it and flopped back into bed, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. He set his book aside and waited, eyeing the way Curt’s chest heaved before asking gently.

****

“Do you want to talk about it?”

****

“Tell me something, Carvour.” Under the dim lighting of the nightstand lamp, Owen could see the shadows underneath Curt’s eyes and the weary expression on his face. He looked softer here, vulnerable with the way his eyebrows rose up and his forehead wrinkled. He settled back into his pillows and took a deep breath. They’re Owen and Curt now. “What were you doing before all this?”

****

Right, he’s never mentioned what he’s done, and neither has Curt. Owen twiddled his thumbs and hummed, not sure how to approach this topic. He had no idea how to tell Curt that what he’s seen was tame compared to what Curt could have possibly experienced in the warzone.

****

“Europol borrowed me every now and then, took down some child trafficking rings.” When he closed his eyes, he smelled the griminess of abandoned warehouses and felt it underneath his boots. He saw the frightened faces of girls who were hardly 10 years old, screaming at him in different languages not to hurt them. The way their skin was bruised still sent a shiver down his spine. “Sent some pedophiles and rapists to jail.”

****

“You did good, then,” Curt hummed, eyes still staring at the ceiling. His eyes weren’t like Cynthia’s, a different shade of hazel that didn’t burn like magma. Curt’s eyes were a softer hue that caught the light a different way, reminding Owen of autumn mornings in Vauxhall Park. Yes, that’s about right, Curt was like an autumn day.

****

It puzzled Owen sometimes, the way Curt would be cryptic about his specific work in the CIA. Cynthia would assert that he was an intelligence operative for the Directorate of Operations but would deny that he should be referred to as “agent”. Curt received the exact same training as Owen did, acted and worked on the same sort of missions as him, and yet seemed to know more than he did. He described Owen’s work as “good” while he couldn’t even supply an appropriate description for what he’s done in the Middle East.

****

Well, it wasn’t really a secret that the CIA was a reasonably dangerous organization. They had their reach, their distinct kind of influence that no one can top. Owen just can’t imagine Curt fitting the agency’s distinct branding, capable of doing the kinds of atrocities heard in the international rumor mill.

****

Owen didn’t even know where to start, but he had to start somewhere. He shifted and shimmied around in bed until he was lying down next to Curt, whose eyes were still on the ceiling. He reached out to pat Curt’s bicep gently, “Where were you stationed?”

****

“Everywhere.” Curt said simply, tilting his head to him and sighing. Those lips of his twitched downwards, as if he thought of something that discomforted him. Owen raised his hand until it was gently caressing his cheek. He could feel the stubble that was just starting to grow. He wished they were acting like this because they were an actual couple and not because it was for a mission.

****

“What did you do?”

****

“Things.”

****

“Do you want to talk about it, love?”

****

His face soured. The glare he gave Owen was one that reminded him of their first night together, cold and calculated. Killer. He quickly blocked the memory from his mind as his heart jumped. “Owen, quit playing the husband card. I’m too tired for this.”  

****

Owen nodded sullenly. He turned around and reached for the lamp, switching it off and casting the world in shadows.

****

* * *

****

Day 5 is when a pair of officers from the Office of Technical Service appeared on their doorstep, introducing themselves as Alexa Echo and Dee Nuez. They were both relatively young women, with Alexa being the taller one with long, straight hair wrestled down by a headband. Nuez, meanwhile, had a short, curly bob and wore looser clothing, making her look smaller than she really was.

****

Curt was cooking lunch while Owen greeted them at the door, ushering them in with their cases filled with new toys to use. He listened intently as Alexa babbled about what they had in store, with Nuez picking up their dossiers and skimming their assumed identities. He was in the middle of flipping pancakes and measuring out another one with a cup when he heard the click of suitcases being opened.

****

“Please try to return them in one piece.” Alexa said, prompting Curt to peek and look at what the gadgets are. There were four metal spheres resting on black foam padding, one of which was currently being held by Owen. Alexa was holding a silver bracelet which Owen took after a moment of admiring the sphere’s work, clipping it to his wrist before setting the sphere down. With a flick the thing powered up and showed the CIA insignia, rotating slowly in the air as a soft whirr was heard.

****

Curt turned back to his cooking and was surprised to see Nuez, who was currently fixated on the way he was making his pancakes. Dark brown eyes stared back at him as she jumped back, surprised by his sudden movements. He was gripping the spatula too hard.  “Director Houston would like to inform you that they’ll be sending me into the field to check in on you every now and then, sir.”

****

“Understood.” He said after a moment, returning to making his pancakes. He eyed the stack right next to him and then turned to the batter, wondering if the two officers had breakfast yet. Nuez still hovered over his shoulder, as if expectant of something else. Curt turned to her once more. “Anything else I need to know?”

****

“I could take care of this if you want.” She said simply. He glanced at the stack once more, the currently frying pancake, then Nuez. He handed her the spatula and patted his hands down on the nearby washcloth before making his way to the living room where Owen was playing around with the hologram projector.

****

“Curt, look at this! These are incredible!” Owen grinned as he flicked through the holograms, the display currently showing whatever information they had on Chimera. Curt studied the names and faces of the individuals they’ve identified as part of the organization, mostly low-ranking mercenaries and dealers that Chimera worked with. It’s startling how more often than not they only know aliases of people with no faces.

****

He eyed the opened suitcase and found something he was familiar with, quickly grabbing it and inspecting both sides of it. It was a smartwatch, a familiar gadget he hasn’t used in a very long time. The display lit up with the current time and weather as Curt fitted it on his wrist and secured it, tapping the screen to see what its features are.   
  
“Barb said you’d like it, sir,” Alexa said after a moment, perhaps observant of Curt’s expression as he continued going over the options. “It’s also equipped with a laser, should you need it in the future. Just run your thumb over the screen twice.”

****

“Cool.” Curt grinned as he checked the sides, eyeing the little hole found on one of them. Owen seemed to have caught on with what he wanted to do and grabbed his hand before he could try anything. He gave him a dry look.

****

“You’ll be getting your tracker rings tomorrow.” Alexa continued, rummaging through her canvas bag for something she may have forgotten. Curt watched her steadily until she took out a handheld device, somewhat thick and heavy-looking. He glanced at Owen and saw that he had a confused look on his face. He had no idea how to explain this to him “Mega, your arm, please.”

****

This was standard procedure by now, a frequent thing done before, during, and after missions. He reached his left arm out and allowed her to pull it towards her, positioning the device over his forearm and scanning it. He waited until it appeared, the dull blinking of a luminous green light underneath his skin. It took a minute after that for Alexa to confirm her readings.

****

"Thank you." She said after. Curt settled back into the couch and refused to look Owen in the eye, full knowing that the man was looking at him. He wasn't ready to explain it yet, not yet sure how he'll tell Owen about the requirements of his job.

****

Later, during breakfast, when Alexa and Nuez have left their apartment, he avoided every question Owen had about his tracker.

 

* * *

****

Cynthia took a long drag from her cigarette, surveying the chapel they picked for the ceremony. OTS outdid themselves with the flowers picked for the wedding shoot, even going so far as to construct a frame over the altar. Delicate wisterias dangled from it, some of its petals dusting the floor, gentle periwinkle contrasting the hardwood of the chapel. The photographer they sent in was clearly a rookie, fidgeting with the camera every now and then and occasionally taking test shots for lighting. She sighed and exhaled the smoke slowly, the menthol moving through her throat with a satisfying burn. She held the cigarette closer to take another puff.

****

Beside her, Victoria Daniels clicked her tongue and grabbed her cigarette from her lips, crushing it between manicured fingers as she regarded Cynthia with a worried frown. "Those can kill you, you know."

****

She tilted her head up to look her in the eye. Daniels was her equivalent in the MI6, as both the main handler of Owen and the Deputy Director of the Directorate of Intelligence, the counterpart of the CIA's Operations. She was a solid foot taller, with barely any makeup on herself, currently picking at the cigarette ash dug under her fingernails. She was dressed in a cream suit that did wonderful things for her figure.

****

"I've made it a habit to poison myself a little every day since 1988," Cynthia shrugged casually as Daniels' frown deepened, concern clear. The priest for the ceremony (mid-40s, slightly balding) stood at the altar, dabbing his brow with a white handkerchief as he mumbled something neither could hear. He kept glancing at her every now and then but never dared to say a word.

****

"Well, nonetheless, it's rude to smoke in a chapel, dear.” Daniels nodded at the priest's direction before turning to look at someone over Cynthia’s shoulder. She followed her gaze to see Curt in his military blues, fidgeting with his bow tie and the assortment of regalia on his person. There was a rigidness to his posture, a familiar aura from him that reminded her of how he was the day she recruited him. Daniels crooned from beside her, "Your boy cleans up well, Cynthia."

****

"I'll bet you a 20 that it's because of Carvour, Victoria." Cynthia scoffed dryly and shook her head, drained by the turn of events. She remembered reasoning with Director Harker, the CIA head honcho, about the practicality of deploying Mega and Carvour as a married couple. Through a raging migraine she gritted that their current partnership allowed for the potential of them playing the romance card. Harker asked her exasperatedly if either operative would be comfortable acting like a gay man. Cynthia responded with the longest laugh she had had in years.

****

Daniels chuckled, shaking her head good-naturedly as she turned back to Cynthia and smiled. "We trust a whole operation against the world's most secretive criminal organization on two love sick fools."

****

Cynthia huffed at that, fighting back a grin. The duo turned when the chapel doors opened, revealing Owen Carvour, ready to walk down the aisle. She stared at the bouquet he held, recognizing most of the flowers based on what she read on the order slip. It was made of pink peonies and geraniums with a sprinkling of baby’s breath, tied back with a silk blue ribbon.

****

When she turned to Curt his face was an open book, disbelief and awe clear with the way his mouth gaped open. Finally, she let out a sigh and shared a look with Daniels. "Well, you know our motto around here. In gays we trust."

****

* * *

****

Mom used to tell him stories of what her wedding was like when he was younger, recounting for him the process of picking who would sit in which table, who will be who during the wedding. She talked about her wedding dress a lot, a beautiful piece at the time with intricate beading and lace. She taught him every superstition during weddings: always have something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Don’t look for the bride before the ceremony. Never have a train too long. She raised him with that hope that one day he’ll have that perfect wedding with the perfect person, guaranteeing that she’ll even arrange it herself just to make it right.

****

She said, "Curtis, your wedding will be so beautiful that you’ll cry. No, don't give me that - even your father cried when he saw me. It's going to be the most memorable day of your life, the one day you'll treasure forever. Next to when your kids are born, anyways. _That_ was something else."

****

Well, she was right. God, Mom was _right,_ he doesn’t want to forget this moment.

****

He was breathless throughout the entire ceremony, and even if the rational part told him that he was breathing, he felt as if he was only holding it. Time slowed to focus on the man in front of him, the way his hands were warm and slightly clammy in his own, and how his lips twitched upwards to a smile. Curt could hardly hear the flashing of the camera or the soft organ in the background, not even the words of the priest. He ignored Cynthia and Daniels entirely, hell, he forgot they were even in the room.

****

Owen was a vision in white, wearing a three piece suit with an ambrosia flower pinned to his lapel. There was a dusting of pink that scattered over his face, a soft expression on his face as he gazed down on Curt. He smelled like camellias and looked like heaven itself and Curt tried desperately not to start crying, blinking back tears as he smiled back at Owen.

****

When Owen slid his ring onto his finger he recalled yesterday's conversation, and everything slowed for a second.

****

This isn't real. He's not getting married to Owen. _Nick_ was getting married to _Nate Carter_ , a war veteran and a consulate translator are getting hitched, not two intelligence officers with secrets piled upon more secrets. He resisted the urge to frown and kept his face neutral, kept his lips from twitching downwards as he slid his own ring onto Owen's finger.

****

God, even his hands were soft.

****

"You may now kiss." Everything came reeling back when he heard those words, snapping his head to the priest as he realized what was to happen.

 

* * *

****

Owen decided that he had to give whoever pitched the idea to make Curt a soldier a fruit basket.

****

Because the man adapted to the persona so _fucking_ well, all things considered. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Curt got his hair restyled to fit military regulations, a sweet undercut that made his eyes appear sharper and more precise. He filled in the uniform pretty damn well, making him look like so commanding, a figure of authority. Every shiny bit of his uniform gleamed underneath the stained glass window’s sunlight, and he’d be damned if he didn’t want to pull the man in for a kiss by his blue shoulder cords.   

****

Owen liked a man in uniform, sue him.

****

His gloves were practically velvet, and Owen could still feel Curt's body heat radiate through the fabric. When the priest announced that it was time for them to exchange rings, he made sure to pull the left glove off of Curt’s hand to the gold band on his finger. Curt’s hands were warm to the touch, calloused from years of being overseas, but still undeniably gentle and soft. If he stared long enough he can see how they shook minutely.

****

Could he be dreaming or is Curt just as nervous as he is?

****

"You may now kiss." Oh, God almighty, _hell yes._

****

Owen felt a smile creep on his face as he heard those words, watching the way Curt snapped his head towards the priest in surprise. He's been contemplating how this part of the ceremony would go, how it’ll feel to press his lips against Curt’s for the first time. He wondered how they’ll do it, if he’ll bend down so that Curt may reach him or grab him and press him close. God, he’s been waiting to do this for forever.

****

Curt looked startled when he stepped forward, one arm wrapping itself around his thick waist, hand settling on the small of his back. Those autumn eyes of his gleamed under the sunlight as Owen tipped him back slightly, glittering with glee and the barest hint of uncertainty. Curt reached for his cheek and caressed it, the warmth of the golden band on his finger a comfort against his skin.

****

Owen just barely hovered his lips over Curt's and murmured sweetly, "Hey, soldier."

****

There was no applause when they kissed, no wolf whistles and cheers from overjoyed family members. There was only the soft music in the background, the clicking of the camera, and soft lips against his own. The near silence was good, only meant that he can focus better on this moment and remember it for its rawness. Owen pulled him closer to get a better taste of those lips, feeling a rumble against his mouth before nothing. Curt's lips were slightly chapped, probably from anxiety, but they were soft and plush and easy to kiss. He fought back a sigh from his mouth as he tried to immortalize this sensation in his memories.

****

It's the closest he'll ever get to a real kiss from Curt Mega.

****

"That's _Captain_ to you." Curt murmured against his lips when they pulled away, eyes fluttering open as he stared into Owen’s. They held a spark in them, a near possessiveness that even dripped into his tone, and he couldn’t argue anymore when Curt pulled him in for one more kiss.

****

* * *

****

Curt felt like he was in Khalis all over again when they returned to their apartment, eyeing the equipment boxes and duffle bags that were stashed right next to the door. He and Owen made quick work moving them into the white SUV that the CIA loaned to them, shoving them into their backseat and trunk before they went their merry way to New York. Curt had his phone propped up on the dashboard indicating the roads they should go through.  

****

Every now and then he eyed the golden wedding band that was on his left finger. It gleamed underneath the passing streetlights.

****

“So, Captain huh?” Owen piped up next to him ten minutes into the drive, leaning back on the leather seats and glancing at him. Curt had insisted that they shouldn’t change, that they had one more place to be before this mission started. He called it a celebration dinner. A way to secure their cover.

****

Owen just scoffed and called it a date.

****

“Shut up, Carvour.”

****

“No, it’s Nate now.” He practically purred, reaching over to lay a hand on Curt’s blue dress pants. He quickly glanced down to see that same wedding ring glinting under the streetlights. It caught the light in such a way that it twinkled brighter than the stars in the sky.  “So, where are we going, love? Somewhere intimate, somewhere fancy?”

****

Curt knew it was dangerous to do so but he closed his eyes for a brief second and took a deep breath. _God,_ help him.

****

“You can call it that.”

****

They crossed the Potomac River 20 minutes into the drive, the city lights of Washington DC looming ahead with its promise of the capital city’s distinct flavor. Curt turned briefly to catch the river’s waters glinting underneath the moonlight, dark and silvery where the moon caught it. He knew that if he rolled his window down the distinct air of an evening in DC.  

****

After a few more minutes of driving they found themselves in Georgetown, in a quaint little building found near the corner of the street. The hostess ushered them in and asked if they had a reservation, and Curt quickly said his name (“Captain Nick Carter, please”). It wasn’t long until they were ushered into a table for two in one of the little corners, a bucket with a full-bodied red already waiting for them.

****

He watched and waited patiently for the look of awe to fade from Owen’s face, with the way he took in the restaurant’s atmosphere. Picture frames with drawings from the olden times decorated the walls that were panelled with wood. Plush brown sofas made up the booths, with a small flower vase placed on each table. The room was nice and warm, with pleasant music lilting around the room.

****

Owen only gave the wine bottle one look before turning to him. “Nick, love, how do you suppose we’re gonna pay for all of this?”

****

“Already have it covered,” He twitched his mouth upwards as he popped the wine bottle opened and poured Owen a generous glass of wine.

****

“I doubt it’s a good idea for us both to drink when we’re supposed to be driving to New York, Nick.”

  
“Oh, you’ll be doing the drinking tonight, babe, and I’ll be doing the driving,” Curt leaned back in his seat and offered him a crooked smile, glancing quickly to the side when he noticed a waiter coming towards them in his peripheral. He turned back to Owen and stretched his lips into a wider grin, “What kind of husband would I be to risk our lives like that?”

****

He made sure to remember the way Owen looked at him, the surprise and openness so clear on his face as he flushed.

****

* * *

****

Daniels walked around the room in search of something, heels clicking against the office’s soft carpeting. She crouched to stare into the glass cabinets, searching between the books and binders for what she needed. After a moment of searching she conceded and turned to Cynthia, who was currently taking a long drag from her cigarette as she eyed the blinking triangles that appeared on the holographic layout of Washington DC. The scent of menthol was distinctly in the air, a trademark of the kind of cigarettes the CIA deputy director was smoking.

****

“Cynthia, dear, where did you move your alcohol?” She asked carefully, watching as Cynthia looked up to gaze at her. The holographic projector on the coffee table beneath her emanated holograms with a distinctly blue glow, bathing her in its light and making her eyes appear glassy. There weren’t many people left in this wing of Langley, and Cynthia insisted she stayed a little longer to watch over the two agents before she gave in and headed home.   

****

“It’s in my desk.” Slowly she made her way to her desk, a mahogany piece with beautifully designed paneling, pulling out a key from her suit pocket. She bent over her desk to unlock a drawer, procuring a bottle of red wine. Daniels hummed and pivoted to make her way to the cabinets to the side. “We hired a new medical officer recently and as part of the dumbass initiation hazing, the senior agents are having him steal a bottle of booze from my office.”

****

She pulled two glasses from a shelf. “And so you made it harder to get to?”

****

“Yes? I went through the same shit when Vantusko was still in charge so I’m not gonna make it any easier for this punk.” Daniels listened intently as she walked across the room to where Cynthia was, stopping only to remove her heels and set them aside. She flexed her ankles a little and curled her toes, closing her eyes to relish the pure relief that came with removing them. Her feet have been sore all day. She finally stood next to Cynthia as she took the bottle from her hands, pouring them a glass. She heard the chirrup of a notification popping up on the hologram feed. She turned just as Cynthia clicked her tongue. “Speak of the devil, the newbie has heard about our betting pool and wants in.”

****

“Has he even seen those two interact yet?” She handed a glass to Cynthia, clinking it with her own as she took a slow sip. She closed her eyes and took in the rich flavor of the wine, humming satisfactorily to herself. She opened her eyes to see Cynthia clipping a silver band on her wrist. She flicked the notification up and dismally read through the message.  

****

Cynthia huffed and took a long sip from her own glass, draining half of it without much effort. “Yeah, he was monitoring Mega’s vitals during his physical when Carvour walked in.”

****

“That was when he was in nothing but swim trunks, correct?” Cynthia nodded. Victoria chuckled and shook her head, patting down her pockets until she found what she needed. She pulled on one of the gloves she had there, a thin rubber-like thing with sensors on the fingertips, snapping her fingers to activate a hologram projector that was right next to Cynthia’s.

****

‘The CIA-MI6 Betting Pool on Dumbasses in Love’ was an inter-agency thing between the two organizations, a running bet that has existed ever since someone noticed that Curt and Owen acted strangely whenever together. It listed the last names of agents, CIA officers in neon green text and MI6 in neon blue, a monetary amount, either Curt or Owen’s name, and a seemingly random date.

****

Victoria summoned up a keyboard. “What am I writing down, dear?”

****

“Stewart, 20 dollars, Owen, August 31st.”

****

Daniels tapped it down, nimble fingers dancing over the hologram blue letters in front of her. After a moment she scrolled around to search for her own name, increasing her bet to 50 dollars. She finally pulled back her glove and inspected the list, grinning to herself before taking a long sip from her wine glass. When she turned to Cynthia, she saw her sitting on her desk, heels removed and sitting right next to her own.  

****

Her mind reminded her of earlier, when they were in the chapel. “You know, your officers are terribly good at staging a wedding. Is that one of the many things you CIA lots train your people to do?”

****

The grin that spread on Cynthia’s face was relaxed, familiarly soft and fond. “No, that's all Susan.”

****

“We should ask them to plan our wedding, then.” She swallowed down a frown by taking another sip from her wine glass, watching Cynthia’s face carefully. The way she frowned and sighed tugged at her heartstrings a certain way, prompting her to step closer towards her as she picked up the wine glass and refilled her own glass. She drained half of it and set it back down, hand inches away from Cynthia’s.

****

“Not yet,” The way she took Daniels’ hand was gentle, rubbing her knuckles slowly as she frowned to herself. She could see that Cynthia was thinking, running the possibilities in her head and coming up with a final conclusion. The way her frown deepened indicated that it wasn’t something pretty. “It's not our time yet.”

****

Daniels sighed. Neither can dare come out with their relationship with each other, simply because of the implications that would mean about their work together. Field operatives like Curt and Owen can get away with it so long as they can guarantee a good working relationship, so long as they can still do the job without compromising their mission.

****

People like Cynthia and Daniels, however? Different circus, different monkeys.

****

“Clearly,” She took a deep breath in and held it, sighing deeply as she watched the twin triangles blinking over Washington DC. The two managed to take time to go on a date before they went to New York. _Lucky._ “We could have done it earlier if not for the bloody Brexit fiasco. Hate to break it to you but shit’s been hitting the fan for me ever since.”

****

Cynthia turned to her with a sympathetic look, humming once more as she thought of something. “When does your flight leave?”

****

Daniels can think of a thousand implications of that question alone, and she blinked in surprise before answering. “I have about a week here just to make sure Carvour and Mega remain smooth sailing. Why do you ask?”  

****

“I know just what to do to make it worth your while.”

****

“Enlighten me, dear.”

****

“There are some movies I haven't watched that are recorded on my TV,” Cynthia grinned as she squeezed her hand.

****

Daniels bit back a laugh as she leaned closer, almost bumping her nose against Cynthia’s, “Are you insinuating that I come home with you tonight, Houston?”

****

“If it's not that much trouble.” She murmured and reached over to peck her lips, breath tasting like wine. It was something quick and intimate, something that tugged a smile from Daniels’ lips.

****

The two women left the office, shoes in hand, bottle of wine left for the taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore and facts:  
> \- The song of this chapter is "Me and My Husband" by Mitski. It's a fantastic song, please listen to it!  
> \- This is 8069 words long because again we're stupid and just want it to happen.  
> \- Curt's name in this AU is a direct reference to his character in Glee as a Warbler.  
> \- Alexa Echo and Nuez are both characters from the SAF Discord. Yes, Alexa is a joke of the actual AI.  
> \- "In gays we trust" is a play of "In God we trust" of America. This'll be a running joke that will happen throughout the fic.  
> \- Please look up the meanings of the flowers we mentioned, you'll thank us later ;)
> 
> Please leave your kudos and comments!! Thank you so much for reading!!


	4. a brand new start of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Nightmares, minor depiction of torture, minor mention of war, minor depiction of panic attacks, Southern slang
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your kind comments and kudos! I hope we don't disappoint :))
> 
> I give my love to Percy and Lilly!! I love you guys so much

After five hours of driving, Curt finally pulled up to the townhouse they’ll be staying in at a quarter past one in the morning. His back ached from sitting down for too long, and he could feel some old scars acting up under the cold as he switched the engine off and leaned back, taking a deep breath in and holding it.

 

About an hour into their drive, Owen fell asleep against the car window, succumbing to the drowsiness that wine could grant to the human soul. Every now and then he’d hear his tiny snores that were slightly muted against the hum of the engine. Every now and then he’d glance to the side and watch him, the relaxed expression on his face, and the way that golden band twinkled under the lights.

 

New York really was practically incapable of sleeping. It was a restless city, filled with a strong energy that rattled the streets and bounced off of a buildings’ glass exteriors. Every now and then there’d be some sort of city music, like the playing of a radio or the honking of horns, or the loud chatter of New York folks across the street. The city lights shone in a mix of amber and white, dancing over surfaces and keeping the city in a constant state of lively consciousness.

 

Curt eyed himself in the rear view mirror, almost shocked when he noticed that he was still wearing the military blues. Right, he hasn’t changed since the wedding shoot. He barely managed to remember to throw his jacket to the backseat before they started driving because he obviously didn’t want the ribbon pins to bite into his skin. He was still wearing his dress shirt, the epaulets gleaming under the streetlamps. He took in a shaky breath as he felt exhaustion settle into his bones and sighed, near deflating in his seat, before turning to Owen and shaking his shoulder lightly.

 

“We’re here, babe, wake up,” Owen groaned and batted his hand away, ring glinting on his finger as he did so. Curt watched it, enamored by the way it caught the light and reminded him that they’re “married” for this mission. Was this how newlyweds felt during their first few months together? Do they spend this much time admiring their new status, watching the golden band glimmer and glow underneath the light whenever possible? If that was the case then he understood then and there entirely. He just wished they were actually, properly married.

 

There was a tiny frown on Owen’s face once more as he righted himself and stretched, his back popping as he groaned once more. He looked irritated, rightfully so; Curt must have woken him up from a good rest. He couldn't be blamed, though, he refused to let Owen sleep like that all night. It simply wouldn't do. He waited as the man tried to mumble coherent sentences as he blinked back drowsiness.

 

“Head’s aching,” Owen mumbled weakly as he rubbed his eyes with one hand and cradled his head with the other, elbow resting against the glass. Curt frowned a little, finding this all adorable and sweet, though now he had no clue how to get Owen to their townhouse without either making a fool of himself. Eventually, Curt made up his mind with what he’ll do next, taking the keys and clipping it to his belt loop. He exited the car and stepped into the midnight cold of New York City, rounding the hood and standing in front of the passenger seat and opening it. Owen already had his seatbelt off as he nearly fell out of the car, legs scrambling to coordinate themselves to stop him from kissing the sidewalk. Owen yelped and Curt struggled not to laugh at his sorry situation. He hoped Owen would remember it in the morning.

 

“It’s alright, I got you.” Curt stepped forward and bundled him into his arms, one arm wrapping itself under Owen’s back while the other went under his knees. Carrying Owen was a task — he was several pounds heavier, not to mention made of longer limbs that he was, but he persisted nonetheless because it seemed like the right thing to do. Owen was nice and warm, radiating a heat that countered the cold air of New York’s evenings, and he still smelled faintly of camellias and red wine and their dinner from earlier. He huffed Owen into his arms and used his side to shut the door, hastily reaching down to his keys to lock the door before making his way up the steps of their townhouse slowly.

 

This is something Nick would do, right?

 

There was no one within sight who'd see them, but Curt didn't seem to mind either way if they had an audience. This was what married couples do, right? They carry their… spouse in their arms (he can't say bridal style, he can't see Owen as his bride) and to where they'll be staying. It's one of the many romantic gestures he's learned from his mother. It would make sense to do it then, right?

 

At least Owen had enough sense in him to open the door to their townhouse using the key that was on him earlier. His hand kept missing the keyhole every time he tried to put it in, and he was almost tempted to reach over and help him get the door unlocked. When they went in, they found themselves in a darkened hallway, several boxes littering the floor up ahead. Curt tried to eyeball their distance and closeness to each other, realizing that there’s no way he can maneuver them past them and up on the staircase a foot away from the boxes. He was also getting tired, arms getting sore from carrying his husband for too long. He made his way to the first room to his left and found himself in the living room, beelining to the couch in fear of dropping who he’s holding.

 

He took a quick inventory of the living room to see what it was. In the dark he can identify a television screen, the couch, two chairs, empty bookshelves, and a fireplace. The floor clicked underneath his shoes as he walked, a satisfying weight and sound to his ears.

 

“On the couch, baby? Didn’t think you’d be the type for that.” Owen purred as Curt sat him down on the couch, watching as the man immediately got to work stripping out of his suit and shoes. He shed the three-piece suit like it was nothing, discarding the pieces unceremoniously in a little pile on the floor. He seemed gleeful, excited even, focused on getting the work done. Curt stood across from him dumbly and tried to process what’s going on, realizing what it is when Owen was already shirtless and about ready to tug off his boxer shorts, a prominent outline of _something_ pressed against the fabric.

 

 _Fuck_ , he even had a goddamn garter around his thigh.

 

Curt lurched over quickly to stop him from removing his boxers, taking his hand and laughing nervously as Owen blinked up to him and frowned, clearly confused. The whine that came out of his mouth ought to be illegal. Curt tried not to let his eyes roll back into its sockets, “You’re drunk and I’m tired, and I don’t think we can make it to the bedroom.”

 

Owen seemed wary of his answer, but took it nonetheless. From there Curt made quick work getting into much more comfortable clothes, pulling off his uniform tie, dress shirt, and slacks, setting it aside with Owen’s clothes. He was left in his boxers and an undershirt as he toed off his shoes, mind listing off possible ways on how they’ll fit on the couch. Curt knew that he wasn’t going to get much sleep, that Owen liked sleeping on top of Curt, and that his weight would probably keep him pinned should he try and hurt the man. In the end, he managed to arrange them in such a way that he was lying flat on his back and Owen was draped over him once more, radiating heat and pressing Curt down with the right kind of pressure that kept him grounded, relaxed.

 

“You’re a kinky man, Captain Carter.” Curt shivered at the use of the title. He looked so peaceful in this state, head pressed against Curt's chest and hair fanned out. He made the added effort of combing through Owen's hair earlier to get rid of the remaining gel, being rewarded with Owen's moans of gratitude that did nothing good to his groin. The man was appreciative of Curt's hands, he mumbled in his drunken state, their capacity and skill in getting every spot down.

 

Owen giggled as he traced a finger down Curt’s face, tapping the tip of his nose when he finally got there. His nose instantly wrinkled as he tried not to hurt, tried not to let Owen knew that his heart ached with the sight of that sleepy smile on his face. Owen giggled one more time and reached over to press a kiss on his cheek before settling against his chest, nuzzling for a moment before he stilled, easily falling asleep.

 

“You love me anyway.” He breathed as he heard those tiny snores once more, reaching a hand up to card through Owen’s hair. His hair was so _soft_ , he wondered what kind of product he put in it, because he’d love to stay like this and curl his hands in his hair for forever. Curt took in a deep breath and held it, watching the way moonlight shone on Owen’s peaceful face.

 

He wished he could tell him. Curt wished so badly he could tell Owen about what happened in the Middle East, what happened in those past four years. He wished he could be open to Owen about what his work for the CIA is, how Cynthia described it in that dingy office at West Point all those years ago, what he’s done in the name of his country’s security. He wanted to tell him about the way he’s submitted himself to the title of “property of the United States government”, explain to him why Alexa checked on his tracker the other day.

 

But he can't do that to Owen, can't bring himself to hurt him like this. Everyone in the intelligence community was well aware of the kind of work people like him has done. He's not ready to explain to Owen the skeletons in his closet, not ready to see how their dynamic will change once he knew what kind of monster Curt was. He wanted Owen to see him as who he actually was, not some sort of goon the CIA uses for their dirty work.

 

He wanted - no, needed to tell Owen about how much he meant to him, how he wanted this marriage to be real, all things considered. He wanted to be able to properly articulate how much that man kept him afloat throughout the worst situations he’s experienced in the field, how a hope to see him again one day kept him from falling apart. Curt wanted the chance to hold Owen not because of the mission but because he wanted to, because they were an actual couple and not a pair of intelligence officers pretending they are.

 

That’ll come by on a different day, maybe after this mission is over.

 

“At least, I hope you do.” Curt mumbled sadly, mostly to himself, and closed his eyes to sleep. He drifted to a dreamless slumber.

 

* * *

 

_Owen struggled to light up his cigarette in the cold of the German winter, covering the lighter’s flickering flame with his hand as he tried to get it to light up. The wind was brutal at this time of day, whipping his hair this way and that and ruining his perfectly slicked back hairstyle. He knew that if he looked at a mirror that even his cheeks would feel the same way, bright and flush from the winter’s unkindness. He stood at the street corner, watching the trucks and cars pass by him through snow covered streets as he waited patiently for the junior agent to reappear from his scouting._

 

_Speak of the devil. The boy jogged towards him fifteen minutes later, cheeks bright pink from being battered by the cold. His breath came out in tiny wisps of smoke when he stopped before him, as if he were the one smoking and not Owen. He bounced on his feet, probably to warm himself up, and turned to Owen with bright green eyes._

 

_“Target’s confirmed, sir.” His name was Vincent, a starry-eyed newbie fresh out of college. His accent was thick and muffled due to the scarf that’s piled up his face, but still prominently Scottish. He squinted against the wind and wound his scarf up higher._

 

_“Are you sure it’s the house?” Owen frowned, stepping back to get a better look of him. Vincent was a few inches shorter than Owen, his mop of hair only coming up to his nose, a Curt-like characteristic that only made his heart ache a bunch. He took a drag from his cigarette and waited patiently for the kid’s reply. The way his green eyes bounced around the place said a lot, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought the kid was fibbing._

 

_“Positive, sir,” Vincent said after some thought, nodding firmly when Owen arched his eyebrow as a “you sure?” expression. He exhaled the smoke in his lungs and looked around, putting out his cigarette against the nearby stop sign._

 

_“If that’s the case, let’s go.”_

 

* * *

 

Owen jerked awake at the sound of the doorbell, heart thundering against his chest as he took in deep breaths. In an instant the world tilted sideways and he was blinded by the light, forcing him to close his eyes shut in a measly attempt to keep away from the sun’s unforgiving brightness. He leaned his head against the couch and groaned, head pounding as he did, and memories from yesterday came flooding back as he looked around before below him.

 

It was a rarity that he’d see Curt’s face without a single bit of emotion in it, relaxed and slackened by sleep. He was the early riser of the two of them, the one who’d rise at the same time as the sun, but it seemed that driving and their “wedding” wore him out for the night. He took the time to trace his finger against Curt’s face, feeling how soft his skin was before tapping the tip of his nose.

 

The gesture seemed familiar, like he did it some time ago. Owen just didn’t remember when.

 

The doorbell rang again, with someone yelling after a moment of it ringing. “Hello? S’anyone home?”

  
  
Shit. He scrubbed a hand over his face and shivered when he felt the ring glide on his skin. He’ll have to get used to that sensation. Owen stumbled off of the couch, being careful not to knock against Curt too harshly, grabbing the first shirt he can find on the pile on the floor. Shit, did they do anything while he was drunk? He hoped not. If they did anything he wanted at the very least to remember it, should he never have another chance in the future.

 

He buttoned up a few buttons and made his way to the door, searching for something to clobber whoever’s on the other side of the door should it be an intruder. He found a candlestick and shrugged, deciding that it’d do. Owen looked into the peephole before opening the door.

 

The man that stood in front of him was shorter, with a brown cowboy hat perched on his head. His eyes were blue and cheerful, as brilliant and endless as the sea, and they held unbridled joy and happiness. His lips were crooked in a wide grin, not the kind that’s creepy but the one that’s welcoming, friendly. Owen slowly set the candlestick back on the accent table beside him.

  
“Mornin’, neighbor!” He had a thick Texan accent. Owen eyed the plate the man was holding that was covered with tin foil, squinting against the bright sunlight as he tried to decipher what it was. He could smell it from here, and it smelled _good_ , and Owen was unsure if he should let this man in or not. “Pardon my sudden appearance, s’just that I noticed some movers here the other day bringin' in some of your stuff. I’ve been waitin’ on you folks to come into town for a bit so I thought I’d make y’all some cookies.”

 

Just like that his brain clicked with the name of the food he smelled, and immediately his stomach growled for sustenance. He opened the door a little wider and stepped out of the way, unembarrassed by the current disarray of the place. Owen’s sure that the man would understand why it’s like that. “Oh, cheers. You can come in and set it down in the kitchen.”

 

Owen guided him into their home and into the living room, keeping an eye on him from his peripheral to see if he’d do anything funny. The man simply removed his hat out of respect and carried the plate with the other hand. Owen quickly turned to check if Curt was still fast asleep, satisfied to see that he hasn’t moved from his last position. The man quickly caught on and followed his gaze, then turned back to Owen to give him a frown. “I wasn’t aware y’all were…”

 

“Men? Married? Gay?” Owen tested, already apprehensive, turning to the man and stopping before the entryway. The way that tone curled was never good news for him, and he nearly snarled when he realized where this conversation could be going. He suddenly felt so protective, so ready to defend his honor and his husband’s, and he wondered if it would be too late to grab that candlestick again to use it against this man. For all he knew, it could actually be a gun. “I’m sorry, I don’t suppose I caught your name.”

 

“Oh, where are my manners? Richard Big, though my friends call me Dick,” Richard — there’s no way he’s calling him Dick, not at all, rubbed the back of his neck as he chuckled a little. “And no! Not at all, don’t take it that way. I just didn’t expect to be neighbors with some Englishmen like yourselves.”

 

Owen stared at him for a moment, trying to assess if Richard was actually speaking the truth. The man looked genuinely confused, probably a bit guilty from insinuating that he had doubts about their sexuality. He was flicking his eyes between Owen’s shirt and Curt’s sleeping figure, mouth opening and closing with an unheard question. Owen checked himself to see what shirt he was wearing, realizing that it was the source of Richard’s confusion. His hands flew to his chest, recognizing the slight coarseness of the fabric, and he turned to his shoulders and recognized the epaulets on them. Realization dawned on him then and there, the barest flush creeping onto his cheeks.

 

He was wearing Curt’s shirt.

 

Yeah, he wasn’t about to mention that. Time to avoid the subject.

 

“You must be joking if you think he’d be from my side of the pond,” Owen laughed as he shook his head, finally letting Richard into the kitchen. It was a tiny thing with an island and cherry wood cabinets and marble counters, a small dining table set a few feet away from it. He patted around for the light switch and changed his mind after a moment of searching. His pounding head didn’t need the added stimuli after reeling from the pain of laughter. “The man is an Army veteran; he practically bleeds red, white, and blue.”

 

“A’course.” Richard nodded as he set the plate down on the counter, peeling back the tin foil to reveal delicious chocolate chip cookies stacked neatly in a pile. Owen’s mouth was practically watering as he saw them, tempted to grab one now, but he wouldn’t want to do that in front of his guest.

 

He realized he hadn’t even introduced himself. “Oh, how rude of me. I’m Nathaniel Carter. Nate, if you will.”

 

“Pleasure to meet ya, Nate,” He took Richard’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly, not giving him a chance to linger any longer as he pulled his hand back. Richard seemed to have easily relaxed after earlier’s tension. His eyes practically gleamed as he tilted his head and asked, “What brings y’all to Manhattan?”

 

“I’m a translator for the British Consulate, you see.” The cover story flowed out of his mouth seamlessly, mind getting into gear as he relayed the details of his identity. Owen glanced beyond Richard’s shoulder to see that Curt was awake, probably because of the current commotion, grabbing his pants off the floor and slowly pulling them on. His eyes were piercing from across the room, and Owen knew that he was looking at him because of the shirt he was wearing. He can explain later. “Just got assigned here.”

 

“Mighty fine work y’all do, then,” Richard smiled, eyes crinkling. There was something about his stature and gaze that bothered Owen, and he made a mental note to do a background check on him as soon as they were all settled. He couldn’t seem to recall anything in their file concerning neighbors, as if the CIA left them to their own devices with that part. Richard turned around and saw Curt, currently sitting upright on the couch. “Hey there! Name’s Dick, you are?”

 

“Nick.” Curt rose from the couch and made his way to where they were, an easy smile on his face. He stood next to Owen, one of his hands slipping to rest on the small of his back while the other shook Richard’s hand. Owen tried not to close his eyes and sigh. Curt’s hands were big, nice, and warm against his skin. _Goddamnit Carvour, focus._ “I see you’ve met my husband.”  

 

“Look, love, he made us cookies.” Owen turned and picked up one of the cookies, dangling it in front of Curt’s face. The damned man seemed to constantly have this small smile on his face, lips always twitched upwards. Curt’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of cookies and took it from Owen’s hand, munching on one and grinning widely.

 

“Sweet! Tastes like what Mom used to make.” Owen nearly reeled with how light and casual Curt’s tone was, lacking the general heaviness he became accustomed to during the past week. Curt acted and radiated the same energy he had four years ago — a cheery and bright disposition that was ready to joke around as soon as he has an excuse to. His grin was all teeth, dripping in joy, and his heart ached for it. He almost jumped when he felt Curt’s lips inches away from his ear, murmuring quietly. “Look for the coffee machine while I talk to Dick here, babe, I kinda want some coffee and you look like you need some.”

 

He flushed and nodded, looking around to find the boxes marked as kitchen appliances. Curt and Richard engaged in light conversation, exchanging information about Curt’s time with the armed forces, Richard’s time with the police force, and how the military was different with the police. Owen listened intently as he looked through the boxes, finally finding the coffee machine and holding it up to examine how he should use it.

 

Owen froze when he heard Curt laugh, breathy and high that had his heart slow for a moment. It reminded him of a different time, a moment from four years ago, when it was the two of them and a blackout communications window. Blackout comms was a valued time for people like them, when they don’t have to hear anything from their superiors and have a moment with themselves or their partners. It was a moment for bonding, a time for them to center themselves and relax for a quick moment.

 

He felt his heart thundering against his chest. What hurt his Curt so badly that the first time he laughs like that again is for show?

 

"Well, I oughta leave y'all to your unpackin'," Owen turned to see Curt and Richard saying their goodbyes, shaking hands once more. Curt was the epitome of relaxation and openness, shoulders slack and posture open. The way he adapted to his persona as Nick somewhat unsettled Owen, as if he's watching Curt act as someone he's not. Richard turned to him and nodded respectfully, pulling his hat back on and tipping the rim. Owen merely offered him a wave. "Nice to meet y'all, Nate and Nick. Don't be strangers."

 

Curt followed him out, laughing about something Richard said before the door was shut. Owen took deep breaths and carried the coffee maker to the kitchen counter, making quick work assembling it and filling it with coffee beans for it to start brewing. The silence was deafening and he quickly turned to look for Curt, who was just at the doorway of the kitchen, eyes on him.

 

He was still wearing Curt’s shirt.

 

“I’ll scout the rest of the place.” Curt said after a moment of staring, blinking back into reality as he shuffled away. “Remind me to do a background check on someone. Richard Big.”

 

Owen could do nothing but hum in response.

 

* * *

 

He and Curt found an arrangement where either would play by their strengths in setting up the house. Curt would be responsible of stashing their weapons and gadgets around the house, since he was more knowledgeable of how the devices worked. Owen, meanwhile, would be arranging the living room and the study Curt found upstairs. Every room seemed to have boxes just waiting for them to open and sort through, and Owen was frankly curious of what would be in them for him to arrange.

 

The townhouse was beautiful, frankly a better flat than his current one in Vauxhall. Tigerwood flooring, ivory wallpaper, and cherry ceiling trimmings gave the place an aura of comfiness that reminded him of his family’s estate in the countryside. The mix of leather and wooden furniture made him feel classier than he actually was, made him feel more like a diplomat rather than an intelligence agent.  

 

It startled Owen how the CIA was very thorough with making their cover solid. The first thing he got to work on was the bookshelves in the living room, and there were at least five boxes marked as stuff to be placed there. The two boxes he had opened at the moment were full of paperbacks of multiple classics, thick memoirs and non-fictions, and some knick knacks for the spaces between them. Owen currently had them arranged on the floor according to the author’s surname, figuring out if he wanted to break them down further by height.

 

Pocket litter, now turned into house clutter.

 

He could hear the quiet whirr of the projectors behind him, currently propped up on the coffee table. He knew one of them was looking for all the information they can find on Richard Big and any neighbors near them, while another was relaying more information about their mission. In the kitchen he listened to Curt walk across the room, ducking around crooks and cranies in search of a good hiding place.

 

At the chirrup of one of the projectors, he emerged from the kitchen carrying a flash bang and a knife. Owen turned to him and watched as he skimmed the quick details about Richard, gaze focused, “Former police officer, currently a private investigator. God, of all possible neighbors, we get someone who can dig into our pasts.”

 

“It can’t be that bad,” Owen shrugged, making Curt turn to him. He had already changed out of last night’s clothes, currently wearing a worn down hoodie and joggers. The way Curt stared at him burned, as if he was trying to tell him something. Owen still hasn’t changed out of Curt’s shirt. He reasoned he didn’t have the time to. “It's a good test for our cover.”

 

“Well, I don’t like it.” Curt disappeared back into the kitchen, mumbling about putting the knife and flash bang under one of the counters.

 

Owen returned to his books. He picked up one of the paperbacks, a weathered second hand collection of Hemingway’s poetry. He knew that half of the books the CIA got for this mission were taken from second hand stores, and that some were taken from his flat. The Hemingway book was one of them, one of the first books he got with his first MI6 paycheck. He constantly brought it around with him during missions to read to the point that it became this current, worn state.

 

He set it to its side and eyed the edges of the pages. They still had his blood on them.

 

Istanbul. It was a city that crammed its life in every inch of its cobblestone streets, teeming with people and energy that it could almost make someone claustrophobic. Their mission merely involved validating information on the identity of their first Chimera operative, a simple stakeout in one of the corner bistros. They posed as tourists and sat a few tables away from their target, shared a meal while quietly listening in on the conversation.

 

They barely made it out alive. They had to tail so they can figure out where the operative was staying, and they ended up being intercepted and attacked. It turned ugly and forced them to make a mad dash away from the target. Curt was cursing in three different languages under his breath while weaving through the busy streets, pressed close against Owen to keep anyone from seeing the blood that was blooming from his abdomen. Owen played the drunk card, slinging an arm around Curt’s shoulder, and babbling senselessly about how Curt should’ve talked to “that girl in the bar”.

 

The Grey Area’s landlady was the widow of a Mossad officer, a small woman who had beady eyes and greying hair. Owen remembered how much she enjoyed his company, how she seemed to prefer him over Curt (much to the latter’s chagrin), and how she’d give them extra food every now and then. She ushered them in without another word and pushed a first aid kit in Curt’s hands, ordering in broken English that he stitch up the wound because her hands were too shaky to do the trick.

 

Owen recalled vaguely how he bled out on the floorboards while Curt scurried about looking for something that can act as a painkiller. His hands were covered in his own blood by then, head swimming with the blood loss, and for some reason he thought it was a good idea to grapple at the coffee table in search of his book to read to distract himself. His grip slipped and the book fell on the floor, staining the pages too fast for him to pick it back up.

 

Owen’s called back to reality when Curt reappears next to him, tapping his shoulder. He craned his head up as Curt spoke. “We kind of have to go out for groceries.”

 

* * *

 

Manhattan was a scene of lights and city life, a concrete jungle that had looming skyscrapers and brightly colored advertisements in every corner. It was noisy and hectic, loud in a distinctly Manhattan way, constantly busy in its own little bubble. Its denizens scampered about its streets with their own purposes, their own reasons for being, too wrapped up in their story to pay any mind to the others. Buses, taxis, and cars zoomed about the roads to bustle through traffic, more often than not honking their horns and saying a few choice words at the slightest inconvenience.

 

That's what made hiding in New York so easy. New Yorkers don't give a damn about what goes on around them so long as they get from Point A to Point B in time.

 

Curt and Owen walked around the streets of Manhattan in comfortable silence, holding hands tightly in fear of losing the other. It was really more of Curt tugging Owen forward and through the crowds in the street, agile with stepping between groups or scooting his way down a tight path. Owen could do nothing but follow, mildly exasperated, grip firm on Curt's hand.

 

"You seem experienced with the workings of Manhattan," Owen said over the noise and haze of the city. Curt turned his head just quick enough to acknowledge him before they turned to the next street, narrowly dodging a man. His mind spun as he craned his neck to try and read the street signs overhead.

 

They were trying to get back to 50th avenue after scouting the major places they’ll need to be aware of. They walked to the British Consulate for Owen to check what kind of security it had, then to Bread & Brew for Curt to know what the place looked like. They wandered around to look for good restaurants, a supermarket, some bars, and a hotel should they need to lay low. They mapped out possible routes to places like Virago and Narc’s and the safe houses along 57th avenue.

 

Curt didn’t expect it to be evening when they started walking around and scout. He tilted his head up and took in the bright lights, the chilliness of the wind, and the general hecticness that came with big cities. They were waiting at the pedestrian lane now, surrounded by New Yorkers who either had their eyes stuck on a phone or at the overhead scenery. The crowd made him feel warm, just a little, but he was nagged nonetheless by something else.

 

“Nate?”

 

“Hm?” He had Owen’s instant attention. Owen was wearing an old, familiar brown jacket, nondescript besides the fact that it had some stain splotches on the sleeves if he looked hard enough. He remembered too many instances when Owen was wearing it: in that mission in Istanbul, a winter mission in Amsterdam, and a stakeout in Milan. It was practically a part of the man’s daily attire, something that he kept on him despite how old it was.

 

Right now, it looked _really_ warm, which was something Curt needed at the moment.

 

“I’m cold.” He wasn’t lying. Acclimating himself once more to the weather in the United States was hardly a chore — the Middle East had drastically changing temperatures and the West can’t compare to that. The problem was in the fact that his attire wasn’t ready for the change, and with the combined exhaustion of arranging a whole house and exploring New York, his old scars were acting up. Pain tore itself through his torso and legs with a sharpness, and internally he wondered if a hot shower would worsen the pain or relieve it.    

 

“Oh, love, are your scars smarting again?” Owen seemed to pick up on the reason for that quickly. The pedestrian light turned green and the crowd surged forward, the two of them with it. With every step he took he felt pain shoot up the back of his legs. He tried not to wince visibly, tried not to make it apparent that he was in distress. Damned injuries. Damned scars. Curt turned to Owen and nodded sullenly when they got to the other side of the street, watching as  Owen’s face dropped, lips twitching downwards into a pout. He was already removing his jacket. “Poor thing. Here, take my jacket.”

 

Curt shrugged it on without another word. The worn jacket smelled strongly like Owen, carrying his distinct smell of cinnamon soap on its fabric. It still carried the body heat that Owen radiated, a temporary comfort for Curt’s sore body. He’s probably imagining things but he can still smell the faint scent of camellias on the jacket.  

 

Owen seemed nonchalant about the choice. Curt turned to him to see if he was actually okay with it, if he looked cold without the jacket. He wore a light brown shirt underneath it, one button left undone to show a sliver of skin. He was ethereal in this setting and circumstance, so natural,  as if he belonged in the New York lights and glamor.

 

If Curt could, he’d take a picture of this to remember forever.  

 

They got to 50th avenue without much of a fuss after that. He took off the jacket and thanked Owen for letting him borrow it, making his way to their bedroom in search of relief. Every move reminded him of why his body ached, what he went through in the past, and he wasn’t ready to look at Owen’s sympathetic eyes like that. He slowly knelt on the floor to go through his bags (unpacked, they’ll do the closet tomorrow) in search for the pain ointment, giving up after a few minutes of fruitless searching.

 

If he noticed Owen standing by the doorway with concern on his face, he didn’t say.

 

* * *

 

_He’s sure this used to be a pretty bedroom. It was frankly larger than the safe house he shared with Simmons, with ecru walls and golden trimmings on the ceiling and floor. It had marble flooring and a California King bed, plush magenta bed sheets that probably had an absurdly high thread count. He knew that if he walked around a little he’d find himself in a walk-in closet, probably with more clothes than he’s ever had._

 

_He didn’t care for the surname but he knew that this kid’s name was Aiden. Early 20’s, could hardly even grow a beard. Currently in one of the big universities in Europe studying something he wouldn’t bother to remember. Son of a rich socialite CEO of one of the big pharmacies in the region._

 

_Currently duct taped to an armchair, struggling through his bindings and screaming at Curt._

 

_“Fuck you! Fuck you!” The kid spat on his face whenever he asked the question, screaming his lungs out until he was hoarse. His temple still dribbled blood, trickling down his neck and onto the leather of the chair. “I will call for my lawyer!”_

 

_“You got your daddy’s science monkeys to make sarin then proceeded to hand them over to the Syrian government,” Curt said calmly in Arabic, voice calm compared to the kid’s incessant screaming. He quietly sharpening his knife before Aiden with one of the whetstones he found in the downstairs kitchen. On the bed, a projector popped up a holographic feed of updates from Simmons, who was downstairs decrypting data from Aiden’s data drives. She just confirmed that she broke through the firewall. “Now there are at least a hundred casualties, maybe more. What do you have to say for yourself?”_

 

_“I thought it was a fucking joke, man!”_

 

_“A joke?” He put his hands down and slowly made his way to the bed, where a line of torture devices were laid out for him to pick through. Curt flicked his eyes quickly to read through the lines of updates Simmons was giving him._

 

**_Simmons, T._ **

**_Finally broke it, will update with findings_ **

**_You’re taking your time up there_ **

 

_A small keyboard was set on the bottom of the hologram, and he keyed in a quick response before picking up the chains next to the projector._

 

**_Carter, N._ **

**_I’m having fun. Give me thirty._ **

 

**_Simmons, T._ **

**_Quit having fun on the job it’s unethical_ **

 

_“It was just a joke, you son of a bitch!” Such a flimsy excuse. The kid was yelling again, which was starting to irritate Curt. He passed the chains through his palms, felt their weight against it for a second before standing before Aiden. He was practically shaking, quivering violently in his seat, and if Curt paid particular attention he smelled like he just pissed himself._

 

_“I’ll repeat this one more time.” Curt wrapped the chains around the kid’s neck and tugged, watching the way Aiden stiffened and gasped. He pulled the chains tighter and watched as he writhed. “When you lie to me, I hurt you. When you try to step out of line, I hurt you. I don’t think 100 dead people and the 300 others injured are laughing at your little joke.”_

 

_“Fuck you!” The kid choked out before the scene flickered out and transformed into a different bedroom._

 

_Owen. His hair fanned out on their white bed sheets, eyes wide open as he tried to choke out syllables from his paling lips. Those eyes reminded Curt of old vintage pictures, the ones yellowed out or tinged to be colored sepia. They flicked from side to side in an attempt to look for an outlet, something to save him, gagging noises spilling out of his mouth as he worked. They finally settled on Curt as they both looked to see how he was being tortured._

 

_It was his phone’s charging cord._

 

_"C-Curt."_

 

* * *

 

 

He shot up in bed and gasped loudly, his body snapping into action as adrenaline spread through him. Every muscle in his being ached to look for an intruder, already acting on instinct and reaching for the gun stashed in the top drawer of his nightstand. The cold metal and its weight was a comfort for Curt as he raised it and pointed straight ahead at the drywall, deep breaths escaping his chest noisily as he swept it side to side, searching for a target.

 

He checked the digital clock on the stand. It read 4:18.

 

Curt turned to the sleeping figure next to him. It seemed that in his thrashing he managed to pry himself from Owen's limbs, still stretched out as if wrapped around him. Half of his face was practically pressed against the pillow, a dribble of drool making a tiny spot on its surface. His chest rose and fell slowly, face lax, and he seemed too deep in his slumber to notice Curt's current nightmare.

 

He flicked the lamp on and squinted at the sudden surge of light, heart still hammering in his chest as he came to his senses. He set the gun down with a clatter and ran his fingers through his hair, digging his nails in until his scalp burned with pain. Pain flared up all over his body, old scars making an encore as he was reminded by his nightmare, forcing him to take deep breaths in order to stabilize himself.

 

Curt turned to Owen, checking him for injuries, skittering his hands over his skin to check. He frowned when he noticed a red blotch on his bicep. It was bright and angry, and while rationally Curt knew it would fade in an hour, dread filled his chest and stomach. Whether he liked it or not, he kept hurting Owen, and he can't live with himself if that was a constant in his life at the moment.

 

He got out of bed. The cool air did nothing to soothe his sore muscles and scar tissue, aching with the constant reminder of what he's been through. It took effort to march out of the bedroom, to avoid slamming the door behind him, to get in one of the extra bedrooms to tear the comforter off of it. Curt dragged it behind him as he descended the staircase, firmly resolved on staying on the couch, effective immediately.

 

He didn't seem to notice Owen rising out of their bed, concern on his face as he watched him go.

 

* * *

 

 

Owen was worried.

 

Well, worrying was really just a bland, general word to use for this situation. He had tried to level his breathing when he felt Curt bolt out of their bed, had listened as he picked up a gun with practiced ease before setting it down with a clatter, had waited until he got out of bed before he tried to look. Owen watched the weary, spaced out look in Curt’s eyes, the way his body moved near robotically as he made his way out of their bedroom.

 

He was called back to the waking world by his name on Curt’s lips, and he can’t even have the gall to call for Curt with his own.

 

“Damn it.” He sighed to himself exasperatedly and stared across the bed, eyeing the gun that was set down on the nightstand. Owen picked it up slowly and returned it to its place in the top drawer, noting the way the metal was slightly damp. Curt’s hands were clammy. He probably was shaking.

 

He quietly slipped out of the bedroom and down the hallway, listening for anything else that would indicate what Curt was up to. The lights were left on in one of their spare bedrooms, and a quick peek in revealed the bed being stripped of its comforter, lacking a pillow. He continued his search for anything that would tell him where Curt was, finally finding his answers when he walked past the staircase.

 

Pressed against the wall, Curt had his hand over his mouth as he cried in silence, tears sliding down his face as he stared straight ahead. A white comforter and one thick pillow were on the floor at his feet, seemingly forgotten by the one who dragged them down. If Owen strained his ears he might hear the occasional hiccup that escaped Curt’s lips, or the way he exhaled shakily and took deep breaths to calm himself.

 

He stepped away from the staircase and waited, closing his eyes as he tried to assess what’s going on. What did Curt see that drove him to tears?

 

Owen resolved himself after a moment of listening, padding his way back to their bedroom. Curt’s side of the bed was already cold, and a quick check of the clock showed that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep any time soon. He looked around the room in search of something to do, eyes landing on the hologram projector propped up on his nightstand.

 

He clipped the metal cuff around his wrist and watched as the projector whirred to life. The voice recognition feature was activated for his.

 

“Background check. Curt Mega.”

 

He wanted to know who or what hurt Curt, what he’s been through, what’s with the vagueness of his work with the CIA. Owen wanted to help him go through this as both his friend and partner (in every sense of the word), and he knew that asking Curt would spiral down to a wild goose chase for nonexistent answers. He couldn’t help but hate the uselessness he felt about the whole situation, not knowing what to do to soothe his friend’s pain.

 

He rubbed his arm, noticing a slight pain there. Owen had a working theory of what Curt was in the CIA, and while he knew the only logical way to get his answers was asking the man himself, he knew a quick check with the CIA database would tell him enough. He watched as the hologram shifted and flickered until it showed Curt’s profile and his name and basic information, everything else after that redacted with black lines.

 

Above Curt’s name, in all bold capital letters, read: **_[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION REQUIRES LEVEL 7 CLEARANCE]_ **

 

Owen fell back into bed, deactivating the hologram projector with a dismissive wave of the hand as he scrubbed his face with his hand. He knew it. Of course the file was redacted. He heaved a sigh as he reluctantly curled up on his side, facing Curt’s side of the bed and staring ahead, wishing he knew how to help Curt. God, he needed to help him somehow; he can’t let him suffer like this. He waited and stared ahead until sunlight spilled from the windows, softly casting its ray on the empty side across him.

 

Dawn breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore and notes!!  
> \- Dawn breaks will be a common thing to say here so y'all might as well tally it  
> \- I unknowingly put this chapter at 7969 words and I'm still shook abt it  
> \- Our song here is "New York, New York" (Cover) by Dodie Clark and Thomas Sanders!! My music senses are all over the place I apologize  
> \- As a military brat I can confirm with absolute exasperation that the pins of military ribbons dig harshly onto skin and hurts like a bitch despite the fact that you're wearing one or two layers underneath, I do not recommend :(   
> \- I actually have their whole apartment loaded up on the Sims 4 (aka Bast spends Too Much Time For Fic Accuracy), still working on perfecting it but the general layout is there!!  
> \- Owen's nightmare may be further discussed in future chapters   
> \- The candlestick is a direct reference to Pay Attention, it is a gun  
> \- Y'all have no idea how much time we spent stressing out over what job Dick Big has  
> \- Serious lore: Grey Areas work much like the Continental hotels of the John Wick verse, except with a few catches. Grey Areas are owned by former criminals or intelligence officers/military folks that serve as a neutral ground (hence their name) for both the criminal underworld and the law enforcement/military institutions. They're mostly a cluster of hotels, bars, boutiques, and safe houses that anyone can walk into. There are very few scattered around the world seeing as most ex-criminals/soldiers/agents would prefer to make establishments that are their turf. Everyone basically respects one law in there: Don't do anything stupid. Virago and Narc's are two mentioned examples.   
> \- The mentioned sarin attack is the Khan Shaykhun chemical attack that occurred in 2017. About 80-100+ were killed and 300-500 were injured. May they find their peace.  
> \- Curt has been using the Nick Carter name for about as long as he's been stationed in Syria, as proven by his correspondence with Simmons. What does this imply about Simmons? Well, I can only say that Jonna Mendez, former CIA Chief of Disguise, explains really well how CIA officers take aliases abroad so as not to compromise their real names in a WIRED video.  
> \- "When you lie to me, I hurt you." is a direct reference to Zero Dark Thirty, one of the many films I had to watch to get a good feel of what the CIA is capable of doing.   
> \- There's a reason why Curt's file is redacted and classified. 
> 
>  
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading!! Please leave your kudos and comments, love y'all <3


	5. there's nothing i won't understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers: References of war, torture, body issues, and panic attacks.
> 
> Thank you for your kudos and your comments! As much as possible I'll try to keep writing until we've ran out of shit to say.
> 
> With love, the fama crew (Bast, Cailin, Lilly, and Percy)

It was six in the morning when Owen peeled himself from the bed and decided that then was the time to start getting ready for work at the Consulate. He quickly fell into his standard routine: go to the bathroom, pore over the latest news while sitting on the toilet, shower, clothes, then go downstairs for breakfast. He padded down the staircase while holding his pair of oxford shoes, the cold of the floorboards seeping into his woolen socks. His thoughts were on Curt.

 

He started the coffee machine. The smell of the beans was strong, almost heavenly for his morning weary brain. Curt was the one who organized the kitchen after Owen insisted that he do that part of the townhouse, so it took a little bit of searching for Owen to find their coffee mugs. He added a splash of creamer in his while he added more and a packet of sugar in Curt’s knowing that it was how he wanted his coffee done in the mornings. He leaned back on the island and waited, hands on the marble countertop as he drummed his fingers on its surface.

 

His thoughts were on Curt.      

 

He craned his neck to turn towards the living room. Manhattan was alive with its usual noise and morning commute, the occasional honking of the horn or ring of a bicycle bell heard with the chirping of the birds. He could barely see the top of Curt’s head from where he was standing, and he was amused to find that the curls were still messy despite the man’s recent undercut.

 

Coffee was ready. Owen poured them into their mugs and stirred it with a spoon he found in one of the drawers before making his way into the living room. He blew the top of his coffee and took a deep breath in before taking a sip, sighing contently when the first spark of caffeine woke up his senses. He set Curt’s down on the coffee table and inspected what his current situation on the couch was.

 

His thoughts were on Curt. Owen always knew that Curt couldn’t sleep well, that one way or the other that deprivation was going to manifest somehow, and now he could see it clearly with the dark circles under his eyes. There was a frown fixed on his face, cheek partially pressed against the pillow he’s found, the rest of his body disappearing underneath a thick white comforter. Owen observed the rest of the scene to see that Curt was surrounded by tiny throw pillows – the ones that were supposed to be on their couch.

 

One arm was outstretched, dangling off of it. Owen stared at it, transfixed. He wondered that if he stared hard enough, he’d see the blinking light on Curt’s arm.

 

“Love?” Owen crouched to be within Curt’s face level, hand instantly reaching up to run through his hair. It was so soft, delicate under his fingers, but it worried him to find that it was drenched with sweat. The frown on Curt’s face deepened and Owen pouted at the sight, the circles under his eyes seemingly getting darker. “Oh, dear, you don’t seem so well rested.”

 

“S’fine,” Curt’s voice was thick with sleep, hand moving slowly to swat Owen’s hand off of him. He was polite enough to retract his hand and watch as Curt slowly woke up, a tiny groan lilting out of his mouth as he stretched over the couch. He took a sip from his coffee and waited until Curt was sitting, comforter still wrapped around his shoulders as he scratched his cheek, eyes still shut. “D’you got coffee?”

 

“Of course, darling, I do,” Owen grinned, carefully sitting next to him as he took Curt’s coffee from the table. He passed it to his hands and watched as he held it close to his face, blowing a little before taking a small sip. Curt set it down on his lap and stared ahead, as if reminiscing something Owen couldn’t see. “You didn’t have to sleep down here, you know. The bed’s cold without you.”

 

“I have to,” He wasn’t ready for when Curt rested his head against his shoulder, pressing his body against Owen’s. He was a literal furnace, filled with a comforting warmth that Owen wanted to wrap himself around. He tried not to move in fear of having Curt pull away. It’s rare that he got moments like this. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

 

Of course he was terrified of that. Owen’s mind reeled to the first time they shared a bed, the way those eyes stared down at him with coldness and focus. Killer. The same hands that caressed his cheek in that little chapel in Virginia were the same ones that tried to choke the breath out of him in Curt’s bedroom. He could never blame Curt for that, more of himself for assuming Curt would be okay after all these years, but it didn’t stop the way his heart stuttered with the memory.

 

He didn’t know if his chest ached because of the memory or because of Curt’s admission. Owen turned his head to press a small kiss on Curt’s temple. His skin was warm against his lips. “You can never hurt me, Curt.”

 

“I already did.” Curt looked upset as he took a long sip from his coffee, eyes staring straight ahead. If Owen flicked his eyes down, he’d see that Curt’s hands were shaking, the coffee dancing with ripples in his mug. He gently reached a hand there to keep the mug in place, letting his fingers overlap Curt’s in an effort to reassure him. Curt finally looked at him with so much emotion in his eyes, a mix of fear and confusion and sorrow that hurts. “I almost killed you.”

 

“Oh please, Curt, we both know you wouldn’t let me die.” Owen replied softly as he smiled, pressing one more kiss between Curt’s eyebrows. He wished Curt knew that he meant this kiss, that this wasn’t part of their act as husband and husband. He held back a sigh as he pulled away and grinned wider. He wondered if Curt felt what he meant. “Now, how about breakfast?”

 

“I love you, Nate.” Curt murmured, relief spilling from his lips, and Owen didn’t know what to make of it.

 

* * *

 

Owen’s been walking on eggshells with him.

 

That bothered him. After Curt drank half of his coffee and got his senses back, Owen got up and started making them breakfast. It wasn’t anything special: scrambled eggs and some French toast with some of the syrup they bought in the grocery run the other day. They ate while leaning on the counters, not bothering with the dining table since that would just be extra work. Curt held his plate to his chest as he went through breakfast quickly, mind running through what he dreamed of last night.

 

It felt real. Too real. His fingers can still feel the tightness of the chord against Owen’s skin, how he was so sure of what he was doing as if he were doing it on that Aiden kid. If he closed his eyes for too long he can hear the way Owen choked out his name and grappled with the chord, fingers trying to pull it away from his neck. His core felt empty, perhaps a little bit cold, and he wondered to himself if the food even tasted good because suddenly it felt as if he was shoveling nothing into his mouth.

 

“What do you see in your nightmares?” He looked up from his plate to look at Owen, who was staring from across the island. He looked good for his first day at work: a gorgeous robin egg shirt, a silver tie, and a pair of tight fitting slacks. His lanyard was already around his neck with his ID’s beaming face smiling back at Curt. He decided to ignore that last detail. “If you want to talk about it, love.”

 

Curt tried not to grimace. Often after waking up, he'd be in a state of shock and fear with the threat of something he cannot see. He’d function on the terror of someone out there who’d hurt him, driven to make his moves to protect himself. He’d bolt up, get away from the danger, attack anyone who’d try to get too close to him. It’s only after the panic has settled that he’d realize what he’s done, what set him off. The panic gave way to shame.    

 

Owen was still looking at him, gaze careful. He knew Owen wanted to help, hell, he _wished_ Owen had a way to fix all of this, but even Curt knew that he couldn't be helped. He can’t tell him what he’s done in their four year gap in the Middle East. He can’t explain to Owen what he’s been ordered to do in the name of national interests. He can’t bring himself to watch the way Owen’s face would change the day he learned of what Curt was. This was a path he has to go through on his own, sans partner, and while he wished it wasn’t like that, it was the unfortunate case.

 

“The war.” Curt shook his head and set the plate down. Memories flashed too quickly in his mind: the screaming women, the bodies of children laid out on the streets, the cries of babies in hospitals moments before mortar rained down on them. Curt remembered the way warm air stuck to his skin, how humid it was when the sun was high up in the air with no clouds in sight. He remembered how sweat dripped off his nose in those cramped black sites where he— “What else could I dream of?”

 

“If it helps, I dream about the warehouses sometimes.” He tried to remember their past conversations. Owen did some rather tame missions in that four year gap, helping Europol break down some child trafficking rings. He remembered the email thread he and Owen kept up in those four years: the various pictures Owen sent from different locations with no explanation of why he was there. Whenever he thought of it, he was irked by where those perverts prowled. “Finding the kids, seeing their states. It changes people.”

 

“Yeah.” He wasn’t hungry anymore. Curt pushed himself off of the edge and started making his way to the trash bin to throw away his leftover food. His mind flashed with more images: the way Simmons screamed when he dug a bullet out of her side, the way Aiden coughed out blood before stilling, how Cynthia smoked menthol cigarettes and cursed at him when a job was botched. He hated the memories, hated the fact that he was revisiting them now of all times.

 

Curt took Owen’s plate from him before he can ask if he was done with it, getting started on cleaning the dishes. He felt angry, frustrated with his current memories, with how everything spun with memories of the Middle East. He wished he could tell Owen. He wished he could be able to talk about it naturally. Curt glanced to the side to see that Owen was still standing there, staring at Curt’s hands and hovering like a worried mother. He frowned and looked up to him pointedly, “I’m not fine china, Carter.”

“I know.”

 

But Owen wouldn’t meet his gaze, and that said enough.

 

* * *

 

It was a five minute walk from the townhouse to the British Consulate, three if Owen double timed it. Today, he decided to make it seven.

 

He needed this walk to think hard about what’s going on with Curt. His mind was working, reeling really. Curt was sleepy and sappy one moment, sharp and closed off the next. The simplest mention of nightmares had him bitter and snippy. Any attempt Owen made to help him only made Curt push him away further. He knew he had to be patient, had to understand that it would take a while, but as his partner in every sense he _had_ to find a starting point.

 

Manhattan in the morning was as hectic as he’d assume it to be. Yellow taxis sped about and cut through lanes, receiving the offended honking of New Yorkers trying to navigate the roads of the city. The sidewalks teemed with people trying to get to their destinations, pressing onto him and nudging past with a complete nonchalance so typical of the Big Apple. Buildings loomed overhead with their brilliant glass and steel facades, a concrete jungle anyone can easily get lost in. The city air ruffled his hair and threatened to undo his careful grooming. He reached up to smooth back his hair as he thought to himself.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he rummaged around for it. He stepped to the side as pedestrians walked past him, some pushing him this way and that way as they bustled down the street. Owen held back a remark as he was jostled. Typical Americans. He finally held up his phone to see who was calling. He flicked the screen and held the phone up to his ear. “Daniels?”

 

“I’m just checking in.” Victoria Daniels had this light, calm tone that vaguely reminded him of his mother. He relaxed a little and felt his mind whir to silence as he listened, wondering what the call was about. Owen knew that she was staying in the US for the week to make sure that they’re doing fine, mostly to be there in case something goes awry. “I’m taking your moving went well. Any incidents?”

 

“Just about to go into the Consulate, actually.” The honking of a nearby horn was enough to make him start his walk once more. It was hotter in this side of the ocean, far sunnier than glum London, and the crowds did nothing to cool down the atmosphere. He adjusted his grip on his phone and rolled back his shoulder as he felt his satchel slide down his shoulder. He could already see the Consulate’s building looming overhead. “Hey, I need to ask you something.”

 

“Is there something wrong?” Easily concerned. Daniels was such a mother hen, constantly concerned for the top agents in her department. It was endearing, reminding him why he still stayed with the agency. Owen fought back a grin as he stopped in the corner of the street, watching as the green pedestrian light flicked to red. The crowd easily built up around him as the cars sped by, the New York noise almost drowning out what Daniels had to say next. “Is it about Mega? Has he tried attacking you again?”

 

“No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t know how to help him.” Owen said simply, scoping the crowd around him. There were a group of teenagers next to him chattering animatedly about what to buy in one of the big stores nearby. There was an exasperated woman in the side with at least five leashes in her hand, trying to wrangle back a doberman from a chihuahua. Multiple adults like him were dressed in business attire, talking into their own phones or checking it for news. He flicked his eyes back to the pedestrian light. 40 seconds left.   

 

“He’s not like us, Owen.” What was that supposed to mean? Curt was just like any other agent he’s met in the field, perhaps better with his wider skillset and faster reflexes. Beyond his efficiency he was a good person to be around, bright and funny and adventurous whenever they explored new territory. He always knew that there was creeping doubt about the state of Curt’s real occupation, but not in the extent such as this. Curt simply felt like one of the special agents, one of the spies assigned around the world to do their jobs.

 

He crossed the street. The building where the Consulate was stationed was tall, looming, made of steel bars and darkened glass that didn’t tell him anything about what was inside. Owen crossed the street once more and went up the stairs, through spinning doors and into the cool lobby. It had high ceilings, cream walls, and bright lighting to brighten the room that was filled with people.

 

“A moment.” He said as he set his phone down, knowing that Daniels would understand as the security officer loudly asked him to put his satchel and phone on a basket that’ll go through an x-ray machine. He went through the whole process: removed his watch, went through the detector, got patted down, got his stuff again, continued on. He had his phone back in his ear as soon as he got himself settled.

 

The One Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza was home to multiple diplomatic offices, seeing as it was just a few blocks away from the United Nations Headquarters itself. The lobby was swarming with people of multiple nationalities, the air filled with multilingual languages that had Owen turning around to see which languages he can pick from the crowd. Overheard a gorgeous crystal chandelier glittered in the lights, design made to appear as if it were raindrops falling on a cloudy day.

 

“This is impressive.” He breathed into the phone, looking around for where the elevators were. Perhaps if he was more inclined to do administrative work, he’d ask to be assigned here in the consulate. The architecture of this was simply breathtaking.

 

“I know.” A hallway for the elevators was cordoned off to the side, and Owen quickly made his way to it. There was a group of Turkish women talking to his left and a Swedish man talking to someone on the phone on his right, and the mixture of languages was intriguing to hear with the current set up. Was this how diplomats lived, on a daily basis? It was nearly enticing.

 

He followed the Turkish women into the elevator. There was a Spanish man in the corner with a stack of manila folders in his arm, staring ahead as he nodded along to whatever was playing in his headphones. He held onto his satchel as he reached across the elevator to press on his own floor, settling back in his corner as he listened to Daniels speak.

 

“Owen, dear, you don’t need to ask him to know what he’s done in Syria. Everyone in the industry knows the CIA was sent in to train rebels to fight against al-Assad. They’ve been working to put the war in a stalemate.” Daniels explained, near sighing into the phone. It brought a grimace to his face as he considered what she meant. Of course he knew about that; everyone was aware of the CIA’s operations in the Middle East. It was pretty much an open secret within the community, they just didn’t know the fine details of it.

 

“But that’s still not an answer from Curt.” He sighed, the elevator dinging. He watched as the Turkish group filed out with the Spanish man, leaving him alone in the elevator. He glanced around to see that there was only one camera in the corner. It wasn’t necessarily a threat. Owen took a deep breath in. “I tried accessing his file.”

 

“And what did the file say?”

 

“Nothing. Wouldn’t even let me in.” He still felt guilty about it, when he thought about what he did a few hours ago. It wasn’t like he attempted to go behind Curt’s back all the time, he hardly ever did until earlier, but it still felt like a bad thing to do. Owen knew he had to be patient, to find a way to make this work despite everything. He just didn’t like waiting in time sensitive situations.

 

“Isn’t that enough for you to know?” In theory, yes. There were very few reasons why employee information wouldn’t be within Owen’s CIA security clearance, especially when said employee happened to be his current partner on a mission. He tried to run through all of those reasons to see where Curt would fall under, tried to see which was most plausible.

 

The elevator dinged. It opened to a quieter lobby with dark panelling and wool carpeting, a custodian’s table up front with a dark-skinned woman manning it. The British Consulate’s office was spelled out in silver letters over her head, the union jack in silver over the words. He started making his way to her as he spoke to his superior.

 

“Curt’s not a dangerous man, Daniels.”

 

“Whatever helps you sleep next to him, my dear.” Daniels sighed and ended the call.

 

* * *

 

Curt tilted his head to look at himself in the mirror, still pleasantly surprised to see that he had a new haircut. It was a good distraction from the rest of his figure, a reminder that he has entered a new chapter in his career. He looked more like a war veteran, fresh from battle with wounds that have yet to heal. He appeared much like the captain he’s supposed to be. Untouchable. A rock.

 

He grimaced when he looked at his body. The mirror was slightly fogged up by the heat of the shower water, but he could still clearly see what he hated. Scars skittered across the skin, some faint and near invisible while some were bright red and irritated. Scars were a staple in his line of work, it just wasn't as often a case that anyone would have as many as he did. He dragged a finger over the skin to map out where they were: the bullet wound he got in Tehran, a stab wound from Taipei, shrapnel fragments from Palmyra. Most of the ones he could identify were from pre-Syria, and the new ones were much more difficult to recall.

 

Curt’s fingers reached up to his chest, eyeing the cluster of scars that crossed over his sternum and his left pec. He grimaced at the sight, knowing full well what this one was. Most of it has faded away with time that its original image couldn’t even be seen, but he still knew what it was as he traced his hand over it. It’s always one of the first scars to act up during the cold weather, stabbing into his heart and aching until he couldn’t take it. If he focused he could feel it throb against his fingertips.

 

_The room was humid and a river of sweat dripped into his eyes. Were they tears? He couldn’t tell; he could hardly see straight._

 

_“You’re just property, American.” The middle-aged man whispered into his ear darkly as four men held him down, heard over the pounding of his heart that was roaring in his ears. His chest burned with the cuts as he fought back the urge to scream. “I’m surprised your government doesn’t even brand you.”_  

 

Curt gasped back into reality, a horrid sound coming out of his mouth that dragged harshly against his windpipe. It hardly even sounded human, like a machine more than anything, and he blinked back his blurry vision as he struggled to right himself. His skin felt cold, stomach in knots, and he teetered as he gripped the sink’s edge as it was the only thing he can hold right now. The world blinked out of focus as he scrambled to get his bearings, cursing himself when his knees buckled forward and made him lurch against the ceramic. He leaned on the sink and closed his eyes, forehead against the glass as he felt himself break out into a cold sweat.

 

He couldn't breathe. He needed to breathe.

 

“Shit.” Curt whispered into the air, and forced himself to breathe. He felt like he was choking and he tried to solve that by coughing harshly to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. He felt like the knife was still in his chest. His skin was practically alight with pain. His hands slipped and he buckled, narrowly missing the sink, landing painfully on his bathroom floor.

 

His head was spinning. One moment he could see the linoleum tiles of the bathroom floor, the mat rumpled at his feet, and the stark white ceramic of the toilet. The next he could see the muddy concrete floors of where he was held, splotches of blood that was his, the harsh lights strewn about the place to keep him in a constant state of consciousness. His heart was hammering in his chest, roaring loudly in his ears, and he closed his eyes to find a way to get away from the panic.

 

He heard a noise and felt his whole body tense, standing and moving quickly. He grabbed the first weapon he could find — a throwing knife, recently sharpened and tucked up in his ankle — and surged into his room to look for the intruder. He stared out to see a pigeon perched on the windowsill, cooing calmly while beating its wings and ruffling its feathers. Its beady eyes stared through the glass and at him, tilting its head in curiosity with the presence of a glinting object.

 

Curt staggered back, the knife released from his grip with a clatter. That could have been anyone, maybe _Owen_. He could have risked the life of his partner because he heard a noise, could have easily hurt him again when he couldn’t control his panic.

 

He blinked back into focus. Slowly, he reached for his phone in his pocket and went through his contacts.

 

“Hi, Curt! Is something up?” Barb’s bright chirrup could almost be considered shrill in his ear, and he kept his ear at a safe distance away from the phone as he listened to the background. She seemed to be in her lab, with Alexa most likely streaming some lofi music in their computer speakers. He could vaguely hear the fizzling of something, which was usually a bad sign.

 

“Barb, hi,” He said, adjusting his grip on his phone. The pigeon had flown away as soon as he dropped the knife, and he swallowed back a lump in his throat at the thought of scaring it. “I need a special order, just send it over. Do you still have that box of tranquilizers?”

 

* * *

 

The receptionist had a thick Yorkshire accent as she explained the floor layout, directing him through a few hallways and pointing out important places he may need like the printer room, snack room, comfort room, etc. There was the constant noise of a telephone ringing as they traversed the area, only becoming louder as they entered the bullpen.

 

Unsurprisingly, the Consulate was filled with frenetic energy. Groups of people passed by him with the same lanyards around their necks and manila folders in their arms, chattering too quickly for him to understand as they pushed around to get to the places they had to be in. A mailroom trolley was stashed to the side, with one or two employees stopping by to pick through it in search of an envelope. The distinct smell of burnt coffee was in the air as he wrinkled his nose and frowned.

 

“This way, please,” She said gently, pressing him down a path that cut through the heart of the bullpen. No one stopped to greet him, not even nod as he walked past, only getting a glance before their attention was elsewhere. He stepped into another hallway and walked to the end of it, being ushered into a conference room with a square glass table and tables piled high with manila folders.

 

Owen surveyed the room’s occupants as they all stood in greeting. There was a Hispanic man with a thick stubble and curly hair, wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Across him was a brunette whose hair was tied back into a chignon, square glasses fitted before bright brown eyes. Lastly was a shorter man with a mess of blond hair, bright green—

 

No.

Owen tensed as he locked eyes with the final occupant. He stared right back at Owen.

 

“Owen Carvour!” The Hispanic man stepped forward and offered him a handshake, grip firm and constant in a way that vaguely reminded him of politicians. Owen offered him a tight smile as he was pat on the shoulder, turning to see if the receptionist was still there. She wasn’t. “It’s an honor to finally meet you. I’m Stephen Torres, your on-site handler. That’s Carys Barker from tech, and over there’s Vincent Myers.”

 

Owen extended his hand to shake hands with Barker and Vincent. Barker spoke with a quick Cardiff accent, going off about how she was so excited to finally work with a legendary officer. He tried to run his mind through people he’s met or heard of, trying to remember if her name was ever brought up in discussions. The only thing that came up was a mission briefing for Bangkok that was using one of her rapid healing patches.

 

Vincent, meanwhile, was much more sober, looking much like the same man he was with all those years ago. If he tilted his head the right way, Owen would see the black hearing aids fitted into Vincent’s ear. He felt a pang of guilt once more as he recalled how he got that, biting back a grimace as he shook Vincent’s hand.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were assigned to this.” The words held no contempt. Shock? No, not quite. Vincent simply smiled at him, a familiar brilliant smile that had him remembering the past, and he tried to shake it off. They’ve been shaking hands for too long. Owen let go of his hand. It still radiated with the Scotsman’s warmth.

 

“Aye, sir, but that’d ruin the surprise, don’t you think?” Those bright greens glittered with youthful mischievousness. Owen was surprised to find that Vincent still looked cheerful and young despite what’s happened all those years ago in Germany. Even he didn’t handle his first botched mission well: while he hardly couldn’t recall it, that was probably due to the alcohol involved after. Vincent must have went through a better path to recovery: went to a doctor, underwent therapy, got some prescriptions. He looked well, as if nothing had happened.   

 

“You’ll be sharing an office with Vincent, seeing as he will mostly be helping you out.” Torres said from behind him. Owen tensed as he realized what that meant, watching the way Vincent’s smile was ever constant. He tried not to sigh, exasperated upon realizing that he should have asked Daniels for information on who he was going to be working with at the Consulate. This is his fault, then, that he has to be in the same office as Vincent.

 

Well, there were worse situations he could’ve been in. He’s just grateful it was with someone who wasn’t so pissed with what he’s done and not someone who’s actively trying to kill him.

 

* * *

 

Getting out of the townhouse after that episode was… something. It was more of Curt stumbling his way down the staircase, traversing the hallway, checking if every sensor was working before stepping out. The weather was fair, bright and sunny to kick off the summer season, and if he were in a better mood he’d say it was a good day. Dick Big wasn’t there to greet him when he got out of the townhouse, and a quick glance to where he lived indicated that he was out, pickup truck nowhere to be seen. He must’ve gone upstate to the stable he’s currently volunteering at. Good for him.

 

His head was still buzzing, nagging him with the fact that he wasn’t alright. Barb took his request without question and confirmed that he’ll have the tranquilizers at his doorstep in three days, _tops_. She didn’t even ask what made him suddenly need them. It was almost as if she expected him to request for them. Curt didn’t know what to make of it.

 

Walking to the cafe/bakery took effort, despite the fact that it was just a three minute walk. Panic attacks always left him raw, vulnerable, easy to agitate with the slightest of sounds. Every honking of the horn startled him. The clicking of heels against pavement alerted him of someone else’s presence. The ringing of a cell phone had him tensing up in preparation for a bomb that isn’t there. The city was filled with stimuli that would easily overwhelm him if he were a lesser man.

 

He could see the cafe/bakery’s little swinging sign from afar. It was one of those hole in the wall sort of establishments, easy to miss if one wasn’t actively looking for it. Curt noticed that there was a man at the entrance, a burly sort with his hands in his pockets. He recognized the profile in an instant: bright blues, cropped hair, and a finely groomed beard. He wore a thick denim jacket over a button down and pants. If Curt looked closer he’d see the barest of ink on his hands, the triangle of stars in dark, bottomless black.

 

The man shook hands with him when he was close enough, blue eyes giving way to dreary grey. He had a gaze that was dangerous. Piercing. Killer. His name was Eli.  

 

“Houston told me to keep an eye out for you.” Eli said, pushing off from the wall and ushering him into the double doors. As soon as it opened Curt felt the draft of warmth escaping, the smell of baked goods distinct from where they stood. A bell tinkled overhead to signal their arrival. “Come on in. We’ll open in a few.”

 

The bakery had an open layout: there were racks and shelves filled with breads and pastries for customers to pick through and put in their baskets. The air was a mix of aromas, most prominent being the bread, chocolate, and blueberries. For a moment his mind calmed from its panicked racket, and Curt surveyed the area to find that there were no customers yet.  

 

“You’ll mostly be manning the cash register, though if you want to do some of the baking just say so.” Eli said as they navigated through the bakery. He pointed out the bestsellers: large loaves of bread, blueberry muffins, chocolate eclairs, big chocolate chip cookies, and cinnamon rolls. They all smelled good as they walked by, and Curt wondered if he should have one of them for lunch later.

 

They went through the swing door. Eli showed him all the essential things on the counter: the coffee machine, the blender, and the first aid kit. He handed him a small notebook filled with the proportions of the drinks they blend in the cafe, something Curt paged through as they continued their quick tour. They stepped into the kitchen, where a rack of raspberry danishes were cooling down. Eli picked one up and took a bite of it, taking another to hand to Curt. It was still warm in his hand.

 

They finally made their way to the snack room, which looked more like a repurposed closet. There were two teenagers already waiting for them there, both of which were arguing about something while tapping away on their phones. The first one, a redhead noticed their arrival and nudged the blond. They both set their phones aside and scrambled to get up from the couch.

 

“This is Nick Carter, an old body from the Army who got out of his tour a few months back,” Eli clapped him on the back and he tried not to jolt. Despite the fact that he was now a baker, the ex-mercenary could still terrify people with his strength. Curt gave the two an easy smile as he smoothened his hair back with his hand, nodding along to Eli’s words. “Pim, Xander, try not to harass him while he’s with us.”

 

“Another veteran? Cool!” The blond perked up as he quickly approached Curt and saluted him. From up close Curt can see the smattering of freckles across his cheeks, the bright hazels that gleamed in the fluorescent lighting. The kid could hardly be older than 18 or so. He wore a pink shirt underneath his apron and had multiple bracelets on his wrists. “It’s Pim Meadowbrook, Mr. Carter sir.”

 

That left the redhead to be Xander. He was right behind Pim, near glaring from across the room, and Curt could sense that he was somewhat wary of Curt. He tried to keep a neutral face as Xander walked up to him, extending a hand for him to shake. It was vaguely sticky with bread dough. “Xander Lee.”  

 

Curt turned back to Eli to see if he had anything else to say. The man was watching the scene carefully, rubbing his knuckles in thought with his thumb. When he noticed that Curt was looking he turned to him, greys piercing. He nodded and stepped into the hallway. “I should open up the place.”

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Curt was already home when Owen got back from the Consulate, his bag filled with classified documents he’s been permitted to bring home and study through. He was exhausted in both the physical and emotional levels, what with the briefing and papers he had to go through, and all he wanted right now was dinner and a full, eight hours of dreamless sleep. If he could convince Curt to come to bed with him that would just be a good old bonus.

 

He’d been wondering on how to talk to Curt after what happened this morning. Curt just wasn’t ready to talk to him about his nightmares. Owen wondered endlessly about the why of it: was he scared, embarrassed, angry with himself? He’s just become closed off all of a sudden, like he didn’t want to discuss anything after that. Owen felt guilty for trying to prod him in the first place. All he wanted to do was help.

 

He remembered the terror, the concern he felt when his watch buzzed and a notification popped up on the interface. _Curt Mega’s pulse rate has surpassed 120 BPM._

 

Owen remembered how he grabbed his phone, hovering his thumb over Curt’s contact number, biting his lip and wondering if he should call him. His mind was racing just wondering what was wrong, chalking it up after a moment that it was a panic attack in the process. He wondered what triggered it, what reminded him of his past, and he was just about ready to call when he remembered how Curt shrugged off his questions.

 

In the end, he didn’t make the call.

 

Coward.

 

There was a paper bag filled with blueberry muffins on their kitchen table when he walked in there, as well as two notebooks labelled “DRINKS” and “RECIPES”, respectively. Owen grabbed a muffin and took a bite into it as he made his way back into their living room, watching Curt’s blank expression as he watched what was on the screen then checking on what he was watching. It was a documentary on cats. Huh.

 

“What do you want for dinner?” That got Curt out of his stupor. He blinked near owlishly as he tilted his head to Owen, illuminated by the waning sunlight and the television screen. He looked tired. Weary. Owen ignored the way his heart clenched at the sight.  

 

“Remember that Vietnamese place we saw a few blocks out?” Owen didn’t expect that as an answer. Curt tilted his head back onto the headrest of the couch, eyes catching the light to become warm pools of hazel. Owen noticed the barest of shadows under his eyes and held back a frown. “Yeah, I want some of that.”

 

So they got that. Twenty minutes later Owen was sitting down on their living room table, a bowl full of pho on his lap. He twiddled with his chopsticks as he watched the documentary, the narrator’s calming voice commentating on the cat’s current activities. It was currently chasing a laser around a room. It was leaping and hopping off of surfaces.

 

“We should get a cat.” Owen said off-handedly, taking a sip from his bowl. The cat could be some company for Curt, a comfort to turn to when Owen wasn’t around to help him or he didn’t want Owen’s help. He watched as the cat skittered across the room with a yelp as it clapped its paws over the red laser. Yes, that’s right. A cat would do Curt some good.

 

Curt merely hummed, “What are you doing in the consulate?”

 

“Just wiretapping, nothing so interesting. You get the fun part of the job.” Owen laughed as he shook his head. His part of the job was much more boring compared to Curt’s. In the Consulate, it was his job to review Chimera movements for the past six months and if any of them required explosives. From there it was merely a point of mapping out data, studying trends, and coming up with conclusions. Boring work, really, not the kind he usually did.

 

“When do I not?”

 

“Fair point.”

 

They shared a laugh at that. Owen tilted his head back to watch Curt, to see the way he threw his head back and laughed easily, as if he had no care in the world. His eyes shut close and his lips quirked up to a smile, pulling back to reveal a row of perfect teeth. The sound he made when he laughed was light, rich in its own distinct flavor, and Owen recalled the last time he heard that, yesterday with Richard.

 

It sounded like forever, but _god_ he wished he heard it more often.

 

Two hours later, their meals were long finished and they were merely channel surfing. Owen clicked his tongue every time they got themselves on one that was showing some rom-com or soap opera that was too predictable for either of their tastes. He wondered if he can hook up Netflix to the TV so they could watch some movies or binge a series. That would make channel surfing a bit more interesting.

 

They got up to clean up and get ready for bed. Curt had to be at the bakery at 9 in the morning while Owen was expected in the Consulate by 8. Curt had already excused himself to the bathroom to take a shower, leaving Owen to do the dishes. He turned to the living room to see the comforter on the couch, the pillows strewn about it.

 

When he saw Curt, thin cotton shirt a little damp and hair gleaming with water, he spoke. “You can come to bed, you know.”

 

“I’m not taking my chances.” Curt grimaced and shook his head, shuffling away to the couch. He watched as he wiped the bowls with a towel, trying to find the words to convince Curt to come with him to the bedroom. He wasn’t afraid of him, not at all, and he knew that the couch was probably too small and uncomfortable for Curt. Owen recalled the conversation he had with Daniels that morning. Curt wasn’t a dangerous man. He was just a little. “Good night, Nate.”

 

“Curt—” He quickly crossed the room and grasped Curt’s wrist, squeezing gently.

 

“I’m not going to bed with you, Nate.” Curt flicked his wrist out of Owen’s grip and gave him a dry look before shaking his head one more time and flopping onto the couch. “Good night.”

 

He adjusted himself and settled in his position, breath evening out a few minutes later. Owen watched from the doorway, heart clenching in his chest as he wondered if he should wake Curt up and drag him to their bed.

 

In the end, he opted to leave him alone.

 

The voice from earlier nagged in his head again. _Coward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and lore, because we need to discuss that at all times: 
> 
> \- This has a word count of 7269. This is gonna be a constant joke, please just keep track of it.  
> \- The song is "Two Birds" by Regina Spektor. Please listen to it, it's a really good song!!  
> \- Only two people in the fic will be allowed to say "Oh please, Curt/Mega, we both know you wouldn’t let me die." and that's Simmons and Owen. The only difference between the delivery of either would be that Simmons retains a semblance of professionalism by using Curt's surname. Owen, meanwhile, much more familiar and open with their relationship, uses Curt.  
> \- Curt is only gonna say "I love you" at least 6 times in this fic. Am I confirming a 5+1 theme strewn about the fic? Yes. Please keep an eye on it.  
> \- Heavy research was done to capture what the One Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza was. I frankly spent too much time reading through descriptions and looking at Google Maps to get it right.  
> \- Vincent here is the aforementioned one in Owen's nightmare! We'll be learning more about what happened between them in the succeeding chapters :)  
> \- Bread&Brew, while lead by an ex-mercenary named Eli, is not exactly considered a Grey Area. Curt can't work at a Grey Area simply because that would make him easily recognizable. That doesn't mean law enforcement people and criminal underworld denizens don't frequent it.   
> \- Xander Lee is the lovely creation of Rey whereas Pim Meadowbrook is the child of Percy. We hope you love them!!
> 
> Please leave your kudos and comments!! They're super helpful for motivation to keep going. Love y'all!!


	6. just enough to survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have to announce that due to the fact that classes have started up again (yes, it begins July here), my updates may take a little longer? Don't worry, seeing as it's the start of the year and I am a demon feral writer I'm pretty sure I can keep up weekly updates. 
> 
> We'd like to dedicate this chapter to Mel (Sunny_Moonbeam) for giving us our 69th kudos, you know how on-brand we are about that 69. Please read her and Max's Rum and Spirits, it is simply phenomenal!!
> 
> Woo! This is a long one, I hope y'all enjoy <3
> 
> My love is Cailin's, Lilly's, and Percy's!! My darlings have all my love uwu

Their days went on like that. Owen woke up at 7 to get ready for his work with the consulate. Sometimes Curt would already be awake and breakfast would be ready for them to eat. Sometimes he was still out cold on the couch and Owen would prepare their meal, usually some variation of eggs and toast. Either way, they'd end up eating breakfast together on their kitchen island, sometimes in silence and sometimes exchanging stories about their individual experiences during the four year gap. 

 

On some days, Curt would be open enough to tell him about his nightmares. He'd skirt around details but it was enough to learn that he was dreaming of warzones and botched operations that cost them in civilian casualties and deaths. He dreamed in dread and regret, painted on fear and anxiety of not doing the job well enough. Owen quickly learned that way that part of Curt's work in the Middle East was surveying incidents caused by the dictatorial government and relaying it to Langley for assessment and moves for intervention. Despite that knowledge he knew Curt's work was beyond intelligence gathering. There was something else haunting his nightmares.

 

Often they walk down the sidewalk together. The other day Richard saw them as they were going out, remarking about how his suit looked good and how Curt looked like he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. Curt then, in a good mood after their lovely discussion over breakfast, replied that it was Owen’s fault for wearing him out in the evening. Owen could still remember how his cheeks flushed at the implication and laughed nervously alongside the two before they went off.  

 

Work was mostly dull and methodical. The office room he’s been stationed in with Vincent wasn’t so bad, though if he were to be asked it felt more like a glass box rather than an actual room. It had glass walls surrounding them and a large conference table in the middle, some cabinets set to the side with other stuff. There were hologram projectors strewn about the conference table with documents that demanded attention, sticky notes in multiple colors on the glass with green whitemarker connecting them, and manila folders that grouped together in clumps on their tables. 

 

Their office was one of the many glass box-like offices in their alcove of the consulate. Apparently the place also served as a satellite station of MI6 to monitor activities within the Americas, and Owen was pleasantly surprised to see familiar faces whenever he went into the office. It made the work day a little less uninteresting with the people he’d see and catch up with in between papers.

 

He always came home at 7, maybe 6 if the work was little. Curt was always home earlier, usually found with his feet on the coffee table while watching something on TV. Owen always made it a point to walk into the living room, reach down to peck Curt’s cheek, and greet him hello once more. The splotch of pink that appeared on Curt’s cheeks after pulled a grin on his face.

 

They make dinner together. It’s an old routine that they’ve been doing for as long as Owen could remember. Curt would do most of the cooking, while Owen would prepare the ingredients by chopping them up, defrosting, mixing them. They talk about their days like that, Curt commenting about how Xander was eating raw bread dough and how Pim had little boxes of slime strewn about the workplace. Owen would reply with stories about how Torres appreciated the classics like he did and how Vincent would tease him for finally “settling down and having a family.” 

 

They eat at the dinner table. Owen was always gracious enough to prepare it for them by taking out the place mats, forks and knives, plates and glasses filled with water. They exchanged more stories there, sometimes about what they did in the past four years and sometimes about what Owen found while studying files. The work was slow, much to Curt’s chagrin, and constantly he’d comment about how he’s lucky he didn’t get that part of the job. Owen, meanwhile, would quip that while he got the tedious bit, at least he was allowed to play games while working.

 

After that’s the cleaning. Owen did that, mostly because it gave Curt time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Whenever he did Owen would wait, bated breath, for the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, internally hoping that tonight would be the night Curt decided to crawl into bed with him. 

 

Every night, without fail, he’d hear the footsteps.

 

Tonight, Owen laid in the center of the bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the noise of New York as cars noisily passed by and night owls talked loudly from the sidewalks. His mind swirled with thoughts of if he should have tried to get Curt to sleep with him, if he could have somehow convinced Curt to stay with him. All he wanted to do was help him, somewhat take care of him, but he just didn’t know what to do when all Curt did was push him away. The only sound in the room was his breathing, the occasional shift of his blankets, and the beeping of the watch whenever something happened.

 

_ Curt Mega’s pulse rate has surpassed 120 BPM. _

 

_ Curt Mega’s pulse rate has stabilized within 100 BPM.  _

 

_ Curt Mega’s pulse rate has reduced to 75 BPM.  _

 

Owen sighed. He flipped onto his side and reached for the hologram projector, setting it down on the soft mattress beside him. He grabbed the metal band and clipped it on his wrist, watching as the sphere whirred to life with an affirmative chirrup. His eyes were tired, weighed down by the day’s stress and worries, but his brain kept going through information and concepts as if it did not need to rest. Wearing it out would be the simplest way he can get it to shut up so he can sleep. That was the plan tonight. 

 

The hologram illuminated the bedroom with a soft blue glow, bouncing off of surfaces and making the room seem slower, quieter. Owen lazily flicked through the documents he perused through earlier, mind going over the information on Chimera’s ranks that they had. It was sparse, unfortunately, not enough for him to assess through. There were mostly low-level members who were either dead or MIA, and that was hardly enough information to even work with.   

 

He tipped the sphere to its side to check if the light for voice recognition was on. After a second he murmured, voice quiet. “Access personal database. Special Agent Owen Carvour, MI6. Code 09-OCA-16.” 

 

The projector processed the request and responded with a chirrup, accepting his agent code and bringing up his folders. Carys (she insisted to be called by her first name) had tinkered with his projectors to link it up to his work phone, mostly to make it convenient should he have to switch between the two devices. Owen combed through them until he found what he was looking for, pressing down on the file and watching as the photos illuminated and filled up the space of the hologram.

 

They were pictures. His gallery was divided according to how he wanted to organize his photos, and he was currently poring over pictures he took with Curt. He recognized some of them as they were printed and framed somewhere in their house, but most of them were in his little database on his phone and projector. He went through them with a small smile on his face, reminiscing the times when they took them. 

 

Owen paused at a picture he took in Berlin, the last mission they had together before Curt was deployed to Syria and he was taken by Europol. They had just landed in the German capital and were jetlagged, but somehow Curt managed to convince him to get out of their hotel room and explore the streets of Berlin. They somehow found themselves in a quaint restaurant half an hour later, seated across each other in a candle lit dinner. Owen took the photo when Curt turned to the waiter and jokingly remarked about something, capturing the twinkle in his eyes and the distinct curl of his lips. 

 

He wished he could see it more often, but that was not the case. 

 

Owen sighed deeply and spoke again, “Open video log. Encrypt the file.”

 

The projector chirped once more and followed his instructions, setting the photo aside as it flickered and whirred to respond to his instructions. Before long, Owen was staring at his own image: face partially pressed against the pillow, hair in disarray, eyes droopy with the need to sleep. The hologram was the only thing illuminating his face, and he could see from there the little shadows under his eyes and the growing stubble he had. Owen tried his best to stifle a yawn as he thought of what to say to the projector tonight. 

 

He learned during one of his many nights alone in bed that he can record videos with it, from there deciding to make a log of videos of himself talking. It was mostly used for when he had a lot in his head that he wanted to unpack, sometimes going off about patterns and details he's noticed while going through Chimera information. Those were the ones he'd go over the next day at the Consulate, usually with Vincent listening and providing additional commentary and rebuttal. Sometimes, however, he wanted to talk about things he wished he could say to Curt but couldn’t find the guts to say it. Those recordings required special encryption, for his eyes only. Tonight was one of the nights for that. 

 

His thoughts rang around his head as he thought of what he wanted to say this time.  _ Coward. _

 

"This is foolish," Owen started, searching for the proper words to say. His mind was skittering about with details and information about Chimera and things he wanted to say to Curt. None of the words felt right, none of them carrying the tone he wanted, and he hesitated at first as he hummed through his pauses. "We've made progress today, I hope. You told me about Idlib, what you saw out there during a scouting mission. It's fucking bollocks if you ask me, the shit they do in the Middle East. I'm sorry you had to see all of that and have no one to talk to about it."

 

Maybe he did, Owen thought. There was a name that Curt would bring up in passing, a female companion during his stay in Iraq that he couldn't remember. Perhaps they'd talk about it after their missions? Owen hoped they did, anyway. The sight of dead bodies of  _ children _ of all people would be a horrifying sight, and heavy psychological briefing was necessary for situations such as that. Owen wondered to himself, heart weighed by his sudden realization. Did Curt get no psychological intervention while in the Middle East? Was he left alone to fight his own demons?

 

"You don't have to, anyway. I, well, I can help you. I'm no therapist that's for sure, not a shrink who can tell you how to fix yourself. Um, I can be there, I guess?" Owen sighed, near burying his face completely into the pillow as he took deep breaths. His hand, outstretched, twiddled with the side of the projector to see the time on the side. The clock read 23:24. "Curt, you're uh… god Curt I— I want to help you, you know that? So badly. You've changed so much since I last saw you and I don't—"

 

Owen reached a hand to rub his face in exasperation. The words don't feel right. They don't feel genuine. The back of his eyes burn — from glaring at the hologram or from tears building up? — and he fought them back, taking a deep breath once more and staring at himself on the projector. His eyes shone under the holographic light. 

 

"I know this is all superficial. Idlib probably barely scratched the surface. You have deeper wounds than that, probably still raw and open." Owen swallowed, tilting his head back in an effort to breathe in more air. In the distance, he can hear a cab honking down the busy road and a man yelling curses at it. He felt that man's pain for a split moment before burying his emotions and finding his words. "I have a, er, creeping feeling I know what you've done, you know, over there. It's the CIA brand, I know, but I've been denying it for so long. You're just… you know— not the type for that. You're not a—"

 

He shook his head, fully burying his face in his pillow, taking a deep breath. Even he can't admit it to himself. It was an open secret within the intelligence community that the CIA had its claws deep in the Syrian part of the region, that they've done unspeakable things in the name of the war on terror. There was that wariness everyone in the Consulate had when he told them who he was partnered with and where he'd been before the mission. He's tried so hard to deny that his Curt was capable of doing whatever it is his colleagues imagined.

 

He took one more deep breath before turning back to the projector. Curt was not a dangerous man. 

 

It irked him, when he thought of it. If Curt did do any of that, was he guilty of it? Owen knew that Curt still had a reasonable moral compass, no matter how vague it could be. It hurt him to consider it. Was Curt's worse nightmares reliant on what inhumane things he had to do for the mission?  

 

Did he see himself as a monster, like how everyone else saw him?

 

Owen bit his lip and frowned. Everyone but him. He can't do that to Curt. "You're not a monster, Curt. You're a, well, you know, you're brilliant and magnificent and so full of  _ life  _ and— and I know you're still in there. Somewhere. You— we.  _ We  _ just have to keep talking, you just need to open up to me, you know? Can you do that for me love? Can you please let me in? Let me take care of you, darling,  _ please _ ." 

 

His thoughts went back to that Berlin picture, of Curt grinning, being so happy, so full of vibrance. Owen mumbled to himself, "Look at what you’ve done to me, a fool in love." 

 

Owen's mind felt dreadfully heavy, weighed down by all the thoughts and emotions he had as they all crashed together and culminated. There was something in his throat that he can no longer talk through, and there was a pressure on his temples as he struggled to say anything else. He felt so lost now, upon realization, that his Curt needed more time than what they had now. He needed professional help, not Owen, someone who can help him sort out his issues and do away with it. It struck him square on the chest when he thought in horror that Curt had to go through too much on his own. 

 

He lost the battle to sleep as he yawned and decided to settle into his bed for rest. His mind whirred around with worries of how he'll take care of Curt, what steps he can take to make him feel better. He hardly remembered that the projector was still on as he curled an arm under his pillow and settled his head on it. 

 

He felt his mouth move, but his mind did not register the words.

 

* * *

 

He came to several hours later to the blaring alarm of his phone, furrowing his brows and stifling a yawn. He still felt tired, groggy, as if last night drained him of his energy and left him raw. Flickers of last night’s dream came to him: Curt’s laughter when they were last in Berlin, Vincent’s yelling when they were in Cologne, Daniels’ warning tone the first time he was assigned to work with Curt. It was a mesh of memories that he couldn’t make sense of, but to be fair that wasn’t really the rationale of dreams in the first place.  

 

Owen groaned, reaching across the bed to flick it back off, slowly rolling himself flat on his back. The soft sunlight filtered in through his eyelids. Outside, New York was already noisy with the first few bars of its city symphony, but it sounded so distant and faded from where he lay. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and blinked them to clarity, staring at the ceiling and sighing deeply. The hologram projector was pressed against his forearm, surface cold, and he pushed it away and listened to it roll off the bed with a thunk. It whirred and activated itself like that, showing him a small gallery filled with his videos. There are currently six of them. 

 

The side next to his was still cold. Unsurprising, at this point. Owen pushed himself out of bed and went through his whole morning routine, padding down the stairs a few minutes later with his suit jacket in one hand, the hologram projector in the other. He had a meeting with Torres and the team at 7:30, therefore he doesn’t have time to have breakfast with Curt, which was saddening. Owen liked the mornings he spent with him. 

 

Curt was still sprawled on the couch when he stepped into the living room. Owen quickly took stock of what the living room looked like: everything was mostly spartan and clean, just as how he arranged it a few days ago. The coffee table currently had a photo frame of the two of them during their “wedding”, a half-empty (half-full for those optimists) glass of water, and a bottle of over the counter sleeping pills. The remote was on the floor with at least three throw pillows, and the comforter was clinging on to the couch for dear life. Curt has currently flopped on his stomach, arm stretched out and hanging limply. 

 

Owen seated himself in front of Curt, adjusting himself on one of the fallen throw pillows to make himself comfortable. The living room was static and calm, a modern renaissance painting realized with Curt Mega as its subject. Owen took his blessed time appreciating his partner’s sleeping form, tilting his head to watch the way light fell over Curt’s face. He looked peaceful from where he lay, not a single crease of frustration on his expression. His face was a blank palette, devoid of emotion. He looked peaceful. Owen wished he could see it more often. 

 

He turned his attention towards Curt’s exposed forearm, recalling what had happened last week when they were still in Curt’s apartment. He’s always meant to ask him about the tracker, to understand why Curt needed one embedded into his skin. It wasn’t common practice in the industry, hell, the world in general, to plant trackers in the bodies of your employees. Owen gently traced his fingertips on the skin, pressing against it just a little to see if he’ll find the tiny bump of a tracking chip. He found nothing.

 

Aloud, Owen mumbled mostly to himself. “I wonder. If I stared hard enough, would I see your tracker blink?” 

 

Curt responded with a little twitch and yawn, slowly turning on his back and stretching over the couch in a cat-like way. His lethargy was somewhat alarming since from past experience Curt would snap awake and most likely attempt to attack him in some form. Owen held back a shiver from the memory, instead turning his attention towards the bottle of sleeping pills on the counter. He picked it up and read the labels, listening to Curt slowly come to in the background. Silently, he wondered if Curt took some earlier. 

 

It took a while, but when Curt finally came to he was unfocused and confused. The expression frankly looked adorable on him, made him look like the same Curt from four years ago. Owen wished he could relish the look on his face a little longer, but a quick glance at his watch warned him that it was already 7:20. Curt wrinkled his nose and blinked up sleepily, squinting just a little. “N-Nate?” 

 

“I need to go in early, sorry love.” Apologetic. He ignored the name Curt chose to use and reached forward, pushing back a lock of hair that fell over Curt’s eyes. He still looked so sleepy and out of it, not yet ready to face the day. He was tempted to suggest that Curt would take the day off and sleep. “I’ll try to come home early to make up for it.” 

 

Curt reached up slowly and pressed a kiss against his cheekbone. Owen closed his eyes for a moment to feel his chapped lips against his skin. The spot radiated warmth even as he pulled away.  “Love you.” 

 

When he settled back on the couch to sleep, Owen was still frozen in place, staring at Curt’s sleeping form while ignoring the way his phone beeped incessantly for his attention. 

 

* * *

 

The morning went by quickly. Owen managed to get to the consulate in the nick of time, albeit out of breath after speed walking through the bullpen and narrowly avoiding the mail cart on his way to his office. Torres didn’t seem to mind his near tardiness before briefing them about their latest developments in the form of a breakthrough. A team of deep cover MI6 agents managed to give them a cache of communication transcripts from within Chimera channels for them to parse through. They have orders from Daniels to parse through them and connect any of them with existing transcripts they have of Sergio’s.  

 

Vincent quickly took up reading through the ones from Chimera. Owen, meanwhile, decided to face the current bane of his existence by going over the transcripts of the wiretapping done on the Santos household for the past six months. It was mostly content between Sergio Santos and various speakers, files divided according to the voice that was speaking on the other line. He scoured through them boredly, taking notes on the notepad next to him and checking them every now and then.

 

He doesn’t talk to Vincent often, or, well, doesn’t try to. Vincent insisted as soon as the briefing was over that Carys would hand him the recordings so he could assess the voices and the moods of each of the recordings. Apparently, he had her make him special hearing aids that doubled as earbuds, making it a bit more convenient for him to work in silence. Owen hadn’t heard a peep from him ever since he started working, eyes glued to the screen while reading through the same documents.   

 

“Boss, you gotta eat, y’know.” Oh, he made the first move. Owen snapped back to attention to find that Vincent was standing in front of him, holding a paper bag in one hand and a mug of peppermint tea in the other. He didn’t even realize that Vincent got out of the office, much less disappear for a long enough time to grab lunch. He quickly checked his watch for the time. It was a quarter to one. He turned back to Vincent. “No worries, I got you an extra sandwich.” 

 

Owen set aside his laptop as Vincent took out the contents of his paper bag. There were two pulled pork sandwiches in paper wrappings, a tiny tub of coleslaw, and some barbeque sauce should they want some on their pork. Owen unwrapped his and watched as Vincent sat across from him, taking a long sip from his tea and unwrapping his sandwich to take a large bite off of it. 

 

Vincent seemed so casual, despite the fact that Owen was the reason why he became deaf. Owen couldn’t seem to look at him without remembering what happened in Cologne: the way the cold wind slapped against his cheeks, the warning tone the German pimp used on them when Owen raised his gun, the grunt Vincent made when he pushed Owen down in an attempt to shield him. Owen remembered sitting in a hospital bed several hours later, ears ringing, ribs hurting with every breath, wondering what happened to the kid and asking about where he was in choppy German. 

 

He remembered the look on Vincent’s face when he realized he couldn’t hear Owen, the way his face crumpled at the realization.    

 

“How did you overcome it?” Owen didn’t even realize he asked the question out loud when Vincent looked up and asked him to repeat the question. The confusion on Vincent’s face was clear, almost comical, and if Owen didn’t know better but he’d assume he was messing with him. He swallowed back a lump and repeated the question. “I got you injured on your first day out in the field. How did you get over it?” 

 

Vincent merely stared at him, wonder and confusion in his expression that he wished the kid would say something. There was devastation on that face two years ago when he failed the auditory test, the day Daniels personally flew to Cologne to get a read of the situation and figure out what went wrong. Owen remembered the way his mouth felt dry, hearing muffled by the tinnitus, how he said he had no idea what went wrong.

 

No idea. Owen didn’t know how he fucked up a perfectly good mission.

 

“Do you still blame yourself for that one, boss?” Vincent frowned, setting his sandwich down and wrapping it back in its paper wrapping. Of course he did, why wouldn’t he? Vincent was new to all of the Europol collaborations and Owen was assigned to show him the ropes. His slight hesitation cost him his hearing and his chance to go any further in the field. Who wouldn’t feel bad about that, who wouldn’t feel guilty? “Because I don’t. You need to know that.” 

 

“I’m only asking because…” Baby steps. He remembered the tone Daniels gave him when he discussed the incident he had with Curt during their first night together. His throat felt raw then, whether from sleep or the choking he was unsure, and she was calm and collected as she asked him if anything hurts, if he deemed Curt unstable. Owen remembered insisting that Curt was fine and that he wanted to help him. Take care of him.  _ Make it right, goddamnit.  _ “I just want to understand how you did it so I can help someone else with their own worries.” 

 

Vincent smiled sweetly, teeth stained with the barbeque sauce he used to cover his sandwich. “This is about your partner, isn’t it?” 

 

Owen wasn’t even being subtle now. He wasn’t surprised that Vincent quickly picked up on the motives of his questioning. Everyone at MI6 was aware that he was partnered with Curt for the mission, who just came back from the Middle East after working there for four years. It would be near impossible for Curt to return without some sort of damage, and it was impossible for Owen to turn a blind eye to it. He ignored the clenching of his chest at the reminder of that and instead nodded, leaning forward. “He doesn’t sleep well at night.” 

 

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t. I didn’t sleep well after that mission either.” Vincent leaned back and shook his head, as if reminiscing fond memories and not a dark chapter of his life. Those emerald eyes glittered with lightness and mirth, much like he did in those German streets all those years ago. Owen wondered to himself, mind reeling just a little, just how someone can return to their full selves after falling so low. “It’s proper help and proper friends, really, and a lot of time for yourself.” 

 

“So you pushed people away?” Owen frowned. 

 

“Nah,” Vincent scrunched up his nose, paused, then corrected himself. “Alright,  _ maybe _ . It’s normal, boss, sometimes the man will need his alone time for himself. You just gotta wait for him weather it out on his own before he emerges to spend time with you.” 

 

“It’s like I’m watching a hollow version of him.” Owen sighed after a moment, near deflating in his seat.

 

“Aye right, sir,” Vincent nodded. “But at least there’s bits of him that’re still there.” 

 

* * *

 

Since it was his first time doing the bread run for the bakery (it was settled, after some questioning, that the cafe/bakery was predominantly a bakery), Pim volunteered to do the driving. Curt was grateful for that, anyway, since he wasn’t really up for driving a truck while fending himself against Manhattan’s lunch rush. 

 

Pim explained, while they were driving through the thick arteries of New York and during traffic gridlocks, that the bakery was a supplier for multiple establishments around the grand city. Deliveries were usually twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, but every now and then they’d be called to give an emergency supply of bread due to an influx of customers. He listed off five places they currently had to go to: a soup kitchen, a nursing home, two Italian restaurants, and the Santos bodega up in Harlem. 

 

The kid was really interesting, based on Curt’s standards. Pim was made of soft features and kinetic energy, but at the same time exhibited a bravery in defense of anyone but himself. Just earlier he defended Curt when a customer was complaining about giving her the wrong order, reasoning that Curt was just new and that the lady was just being rude. He remembered the way Pim muttered and shook his head before going right to Curt to ask if he was alright, if he wanted to sit down in the snack room to take a breather. 

 

Pim was a lion hidden in docility and tranquility, and that reminded him of Owen for some reason.

 

Xander was a little harder to understand. Slightly closed off and keeping to themselves (apparently Xander preferred to use they/them pronouns, much like Susan), there was always at least one occurrence during the day when he’d hear Pim scrambling to tell Xander to stop eating raw dough. That usually followed with Eli’s heavy tone for Xander to put the dough down, then Pim chattering with them for about half an hour while working before they disappeared into the snack room. 

 

Curt tried to talk to the kid himself, and he found that they were a walking paradox. There were times when they would seem serious then backpedal and clarify that they were joking, and moments when they seemed to be joking until their look told otherwise. Nonetheless, they were good to talk to, albeit wary of Curt’s history as a soldier. At least they tried to be helpful by updating Curt with all the humor and drama he missed while he was overseas.  

 

Currently, they were driving up to Harlem, the third place on their list. Curt reeled through his memories to remember who they met in the first Italian restaurant and the soup kitchen. Guido was a cherubim-like man who smelled like herbs and pasta, gratefully taking their loaves of bread and kissing Pim’s cheeks in greeting. He offered them to come in to his little restaurant to have lunch, and Pim was too quick to say yes before Curt could object. He could still taste the gnocchi they had on his tongue. 

 

The soup kitchen, meanwhile, was lead by a young woman named Andy. She was bright and bubbly, as if she lacked worries, but the dark circles in her eyes said otherwise. She wrapped Pim in a hug and chattered with him while Curt and another volunteer unloaded the bread boxes. The way she giggled eerily reminded him of Barb.

 

“So, Mr. Carter sir,” Pim started, bringing him back to reality as they entered the outer throngs of Harlem. The familiar brown brick apartments and buildings came into view with art and graffiti painted on its walls, and in the distance he could hear skateboards and the thunk of basketballs against pavement. This part of the district was alive with an energy that Curt couldn’t predict, and he was glad that Pim was doing the driving for today. He doesn’t know how he’ll keep his cool when every now and then he could swear a kid could skateboard right in front of them, “How long have you been discharged?” 

 

“About three months,” Just like that he’s back in the persona he built for this mission, the weary war veteran who was still a little raw and vulnerable. Throughout the drive Pim would ask him a few innocent questions about himself and his husband, and Curt would try to answer as sparsely as possible. Going by the way Pim looked at him curiously, he continued. “Spent some time with my husband and relaxing between then and now.”  

 

“That’s really cool!” Pim brightened but didn’t turn his eyes away from the street. “What’s your husband like?” 

 

Curt tried to recall a time he ever mentioned Owen and their relationship as husbands. During his first day at the bakery, he said in passing that he had a husband. The way Pim’s eyes glowed upon realization and the way Xander turned to him reminded him of how they were so surprised to hear that.  

 

How would he describe Owen, where would he even start? Owen was incandescent light incarnate, near untouchable if not for the fact that he was also so  _ human _ . He acted so refined and posh but wasn’t elitist about it, a mix of street smarts and etiquette combined into one being. His touch was gentle, hell, Curt would call it reverent if he really thought hard on it, and while he wished he could have more of it, he couldn’t let himself. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want to know when that touch would become harsh.  

 

“He’s…” Curt took the moment to test the words on his lips, then went with them anyway. “He’s brilliant. More than anything I could ever be. Gorgeous.”

 

“He sounds like a keeper.” 

 

“He is.” 

 

They fell into silence. The bodega came into view as a kind of cornershop, safely tucked between two apartments in one of the more suburban parts of Harlem. It had flower pots at the front of the glass, rose bushes in full bloom with their pale pink petals. Latin music flowed out from its windows with its maracas and fast-paced guitar strumming, accompanied by the light humming of a woman who was sweeping dust from the pavement. She looked up as they parked, a grin spreading across her face as she set the broom aside and waved.

 

Maria Santos (she had a longer name, Curt knew it, but he couldn’t be damned to remember it) looked exactly like she did in the file, except animated and more… human than what the profile depicted. She had a round face and short hair that ended at her shoulders, wearing a cherry red dress over a white smock. Her eyes were bright and full of happiness, gleeful with their arrival as she approached their truck to greet them. 

 

It’s hard to imagine her as the wife of Sergio Santos, an explosives expert and dealer. 

 

“Pim! You look as vibrant as ever,” Maria chirped as Pim hopped out of the truck, beelining to her to offer her a tight hug. She was a few inches shorter than Pim, practically tiny if Curt would be precise, and it seemed comical to have a teenager hug her like that. Curt exited the truck carefully and awkwardly stood by the door, wondering how he should introduce himself. Maria quickly noticed him, “And who might you be, sir?” 

 

“Nick Carter, ma’am,” Curt nodded as he stretched a hand out for her to shake. Instincts told him that she could be a reasonably dangerous woman, that she could probably recognize him and aim a weapon at him faster than he can react. Instead, Maria surprised him by taking his hand and pulling him into a hug, landing a kiss on each cheek. He froze as he tried to assess just what happened as she pulled away and gave him a wide grin.

 

“Nice to meet you! Call me Maria.” With that, she spun around and marched into the bodega, calling for someone inside the store. Right after, a scrawny dark-skinned boy came in while rolling up his sleeves, quickly sputtering with apologies to Maria. She turned back to Curt and laid a hand on the newcomer’s shoulder. “This is Matthew. He’ll be helping with the boxes.” 

 

Pim immediately gravitated to Matthew at that, handing Curt the clipboard of order lists they have before going to the back and chattering amiably with Matthew about something. That left Curt with Maria, who was already taking the clipboard and signing off on the order slip. Curt tried to find something to talk to her about. "So uh, I heard a lot of good things from Pim about you."

 

"Is that so?" Maria cooed, clicking her pen closed and handing the clipboard to Curt. He looked at her handwriting and couldn't help but notice how flowery it was. He was lying, anyway, every now and then Pim would pipe up about how much Curt would like Maria. "How sweet of him. I should give you boys something to eat on the way home." 

 

"That would be nice, thank you," Curt said, pausing as he tried to assess her tone. According to the files, Maria was practically harmless, not a single bad bone in her body. That didn't mean she wasn't someone she shouldn't be wary of, however. Even the friendliest faces have the cruelest hidden personas. He tried to find a way to bring up Sergio and decided to play the husband card. "Hey uh, just between the both of us."

 

"Hm?"

 

"Pim said your husband is a rather dashing man, showed me some pictures in the truck." Curt started, nodding at the golden band that's around her finger. That was also true. With a little innocent questions here and an interested tone there, Pim quickly gushed about how the Santos family was adorable and near perfect. The way Pim quickly offered up his battered phone for Curt to go through his pictures of the couple was too easy. It was like taking candy from a baby. Maria nodded and listened on, interest in her features as he continued. "I'd beg to differ and say mine is cuter." 

 

He didn't know how Maria would react to that. The files would never mention (it was irrelevant, anyway) the opinions of their targets concerning certain issues. That meant it was either a big guessing game for Curt and Owen or they'd have to do some snooping around the Internet. So far throughout his time in New York, Curt hadn't encountered any homophohic people. That didn't mean he had a reason to relax. Curt bit back his own reactions as he watched Maria stared at him for a moment, giving him a once over, before she smiled widely. 

 

"Is he, now?" There was no malice to that tone, no spite. Curt sincerely hoped she wasn't homophobic. It would be a shame if she was. "How long have you two been together?" 

 

"Met in 2009, married in 2015." Curt said as they stepped to the side to let Matthew and Pim pass through. The smile Maria gave him was warm, understanding. Maria nodded along as he continued speaking. "Married him just before I left for Syria."

 

"Ah, I should have known you were a soldier boy," Maria hummed as she appraised him once more. The way she took stock of his body seemed assessing, as if she was looking for obvious markers that would make him a gay veteran. He watched the way she gave his golden ring a look before turning back to him. "So are Pim and Xander being nice to you? Not giving you any trouble?" 

 

Curt relaxed a little, offering her a shy chuckle, "No, no trouble at all. Xander and their dough eating escapades worry me, though." 

 

"I think that worries all of us," Maria laughed before they were approached by both Pim and Matthew, the latter declaring that all orders are accounted for. She grinned brilliantly and placed her hands on Curt and Pim's shoulders. "Stay put, I have some food for you two." 

 

She disappeared with Matthew at her heels, emerging with a paper bag that smelled of spices moments later. Maria thanked them profusely for coming and Curt for meeting her, flashing them one more smile before they got in their truck and left to deliver their next order.

 

* * *

 

Based on the little information Curt had on Eli Schumann, he was an ex-mercenary who mainly did missions across Europe and North America. Before retiring he did a bunch of contractual work on behalf of the CIA, where he allegedly witnessed the death of three officers, hence the triangle of stars on his hand. After that Eli stepped out of the intelligence scene, went off the grid for a year or two, then emerged a changed man in Manhattan to put up a bakery called Bread & Brew. So far he's been a success, no one's tried to kill him, and the bakery is a big hit for any criminal denizen or righteous officer who'd want a bagel in between jobs.

 

Oh, and he was also Jewish. Like Curt. 

 

"So, Sergio Santos is your target for this one," Eli started, toothpick between his lips as he settled back on his chair and took a deep breath. It was the late afternoon already, when the bakery was suspended in some form of limbo where all was calm and quiet and no customer went through the doors. There were some who lurked in tables to work on their laptops or phones, spread about the cafe portion of the bakery in their own little bubbles. Curt didn't have to worry about anyone listening in, but he looked nonetheless out of habit. "Guy's practically old school, keeps handwritten notes and all that shit."

 

"Yeah, that's why they thought of sending in us instead of a bunch of techies." Curt mumbled to him as he reached for his coffee to take a sip of it. His brewing skills have somewhat improved over the past few days, tasting better and better as he got used to the motions and the percentages of each drink. Every now and then Eli would pop in to get a taste of what he was making, providing input and patting him on the shoulder whenever applicable. "He's completely unorthodox, man. Has a family, has a life, then does this kind of dark shit at the side."

 

"Hey man, somebody's gotta do it," Eli shrugged as he took the toothpick from his lips and rolled it between his fingers. He reasoned that it was necessary for guys like them to have small snacks in between major meals. It was something about fast metabolisms and constant need for energy, hence why Eli grabbed some blueberry muffins and cheesecake on the way to the table they were at now. Curt knew the man just pitied him and wanted to get some food in his stomach. It wasn't like he can say no. "We all got our reasons for doing it. Explosives are Sergio's thing it's… it's all he knows."

 

Curt knew that one. Sergio's file detailed information on his life in Guatemala, when he was knee deep in gang violence and crime in an effort to bring food to the table at the end of the day. Hispanic folks honored family with such high reverence, so it was no surprise to Curt that the man would go through lengths in the name of it. Sergio was no genius in school, but he had a real knack for anything involving mixing gunpowder with materials to make catastrophic explosions. That quickly lead to his infamy within the gangs as an explosives expert.

 

But something had to give, had to change. When he made the wrong deal with two rivaling gangs his home was attacked and his family… there was no other word for it; the Santos family was  _ slaughtered. _ The detailing of it was grotesque: Sergio coming home to blood on their tiled flooring and his parents and nieces and siblings strewn about what used to be his home. From there he hightailed it up to the United States, bringing nothing but his terror and grief, where he tried to make things right by building himself a wall of protection through connections. He got married and had kids. He never talked about Guatemala. 

 

"So the only way through him is through his family." Curt settled after a moment, crossing his arms as he leaned back on the chair. It left a sour taste in his mouth, to have to go through civilians just to get to Sergio. "What do you know about his wife?"

 

"A saint, would never hurt a fly," Eli fired off casually, giving Curt a look for a moment before adding, tone defensive. "I know that look, you little shit, I know what danger looks like, and it's certainly not that 5'0'' cherubim of a woman who makes great paella." 

 

Curt raised both hands in surrender, "Just wanted to make sure." 

 

"You have to understand,  _ Carter _ , that not everyone here is a target," Eli gruffed, tone thickening with the use of his alias, grey eyes piercing Curt's. He tried not to squirm under that gaze. It looked professional. Killer. "I get your paranoia, that shit's normal in the desert, but you're home now. Stateside. Make yourself at home."

 

"I don't even know what home is anymore." Curt gritted out after a moment, taking one more sip from his coffee before standing from the table, nodding tersely at his boss, and turning back to where the cash register was. He wasn't hungry anymore. Break time was over. 

 

* * *

 

Owen and Vincent managed to devise a plan for him to start broaching the topic of trauma and recovery with Curt. It took baby steps, really, and the journey towards healing was supposed to be long and arduous. Vincent assured him that he was doing the right thing, that he was being helpful, and that Curt would be appreciative of his efforts to help him get better. 

 

Step 1: Buy Curt dinner. That was the easy part of the plan. Owen's been eyeing a pizzeria that was along his route to and from the Consulate that allegedly sold really good New York style pizza. That day he left a little bit earlier to brave the long line it had to buy two boxes, two pepperoni pizzas, fresh from the oven. He carried them with both hands as he made his way to 50th avenue, warmth emanating from the cardboard and making his hands feel a little warmer in the evening cold. 

 

Richard's truck was parked in its usual slot and he was currently unloading some stuff from the back. He and Owen exchanged stories about their days and shared a few laughs about it. Richard told him stories about the horses he took care of in the ranch upstate. Owen told him about the office gossip that went all over the Consulate. 

 

Step 2: Gauge Curt's mood to see if the next steps were feasible. When he stepped into their apartment, Curt was in his spot on the couch, comforter on his lap as he watched the evening news on the television. Owen sat down next to him and set the boxes down on the coffee table, watching the way Curt's face lit up as he scrambled to get one open and grab a slice. The happy moan that came from his mouth had Owen feeling strange. At least it confirmed he was in a good mood. 

 

Step 3: Ask about his day. Curt quickly told him information about Maria Santos and her little bodega in Harlem, about how she was sweet and had Eli’s seal of approval in terms of harmlessness. It concerned him the way that he was unhesitant with telling Owen this, as if he expected Owen to ask about the mission before anything else. Beyond that, he told Owen about the other places they went to, how he tried to make bread in the bakery, and how delicious the danishes were with coffee. 

 

He seemed antsy. Like he was waiting for something. There was a distracted look on Curt’s face as he’d frequently look to the side, jiggling his leg a little while swallowing down three slices in less than five minutes. Owen bit back concern and forced himself to be patient, going through his second slice calmly. Curt told him he was gonna go out to meet with a friend in one of the nearby bars. Owen nodded along. 

 

“Hey, Nick—” Step 4. Someone knocked on their door and Curt practically jumped out of the couch, quickly telling Owen that he would get the door. Owen watched him suspiciously as he disappeared down the hallway and got the door, talking to someone in hushed voices before shutting it once more. Curt was holding a small black box in his hand. Owen could see the CIA insignia etched on one of its sides. “Curt, what’s that?”  

 

“It’s nothing.” Curt brushed him off and slipped the box into his jacket. Owen stood and walked over to him just as he was backing up into the hallway, frowning as he tried to reach over to Curt to see what that was. He knew he shouldn’t act like a nosey parent, hell, that’s probably something he  _ shouldn’t  _ be doing in the plan, but he couldn’t help but wonder what’s gotten Curt so wounded up. “Nate, it’s nothing.” 

 

Apprehension. They were inches away from each other now, standing in the middle of their hallway on a perfectly normal Friday evening. Owen straightened himself and took a deep breath, giving Curt a once over to see if he can pick up any clues about what he’s hiding. Curt’s fists were balled up on his sides and his eyes were firmly on Owen’s, as if he was waiting for him to make a move to reach for him. It was like looking at a frightened animal who didn’t know if it was best to fight or make a run for it. Fight or flight. Curt was wondering which was better.   

 

Owen sighed, and stepped back. He’ll make the decision for him. “If you say so, love.” 

 

Curt stepped back as well, probably to make sure he wasn’t within Owen’s reach, before turning and going upstairs. Owen leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, heart thundering against his chest as he listened for the thumping of footsteps upstairs and the sound of their bedroom door being swung open and shut.

 

Step 4: Tell Curt how he felt about… everything. Tell him everything. That didn’t work out in his favor.

 

* * *

 

The bar Tatiana chose for them was one of the newer ones, recently opened and still teeming with 20 to 30-somethings who go to it for its aesthetic. It was sleekly designed, with multiple booths that were cordoned off from each other, and a gorgeous bar that had a whole rack of hard liquors for patrons to choose from. Lighting came in the form of neon signs and undertones that marked the paths and decorated the walls and nooks of the bar, bringing about a suspended mood of cyberpunk limbo for whoever steps into its walls. 

 

The current booth Curt and Tatiana were at was lit in red by a sign overhead, dead center underneath Tatiana as she leaned back on plush black seats and drank her vodka martini. It only said one word.  _ Inferno _ .  

 

“So, tell me about Owen,” Curt groaned and tilted his head back in agony, closing his eyes as his head thunked against the soft leather of the seat. Tatiana has been aware of his undeniable attraction towards the British MI6 agent for perhaps longer than Curt even realized it, and has since then been awaiting his updates and their situation as husband and husband. She seemed to make it her personal duty to pester him for details about his latest situations. 

 

Finally, when he opened his eyes, all he saw was the red of the neon. "He's trying to get me to open up about what happened in Syria."

 

"Isn't that a good thing for you?" Tatiana frowned, studying him under the red lighting. The way the neon shone on her made her red hair seem darker, more like a bloody crimson than the fiery auburn it typically was. "We don't often get receptive partners in the job, Curt."

 

Right. Compared to him, Tatiana was a  _ much  _ more dangerous operative in the field, though that may be because she was a freelancer and therefore untethered to any foreign policies or agency regulations. She mostly jumped around the globe to explore the many countries dotting it. It was like taking an extended vacation, taking her blessed time enjoying the tourist spots of a country before getting to work. It was because of that reason Tatiana could be rather picky when it came to choosing her assignments, but only because she wanted what was worth her while and not something a rookie could pull off.

 

"How are you and Barb doing?" Curt decided to shift the conversation, no matter how abrupt it seemed. Tatiana quickly caught on with it and grinned, sipping her drink once more. He fiddled with his White Russian. "How long are you staying here for?"

 

"A few days, then I go off to Montreal to take my assignment." Tatiana sighed, a familiar smile playing on her lips as she toyed with the rim of her drink with a fingernail. Curt has been aware of their relationship since the time Barb shyly called him a few weeks after he returned from…  _ that _ place. It was the one good thing that happened to him that whole month, besides Simmons accidentally biting down on a really hot pepper. "I'm driving to her tomorrow morning, then it's blackout comms until next week."

 

Curt nodded and they slipped into silence. He twiddled with his drink, wondering what to tell Tatiana about. It’s rare that they had time to get together like this, when neither were preoccupied by their individual duties as operatives in the intelligence community. The last time he even saw her in person was a few weeks before he was due to be stationed in Syria, when she appeared to give him a hug and a warning not to get himself shot in the Middle East. As if he can follow through with that.  

 

He remembered the delivery he got, and spoke about it. “I got my tranquilizers.” 

 

The look she gave him was unreadable, or well, he couldn’t pin down what it meant. Tatiana stared at him blankly, mouth a straight line, eyes piercing and perhaps near glowing under the red of the neon lights. She held his gaze before turning away, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. She clicked a button on the table and spoke to the speaker on the wall. A moment later, a waiter appeared with a shot glass and a bottle of vodka. She took two shots down.

 

“I tried telling Barb not to give them to you, you know.” Her voice was too soft, accent thicker. Curt had to lean forward to hear her better over the bar’s music. “You’re a person, Mega, not a dog.” 

 

“Sometimes I don’t feel like one.” Curt replied simply. 

 

She gave him another look (sorrow now, he can see it) and poured herself another shot from the bottle of vodka. “Isn’t that a tragedy?” 

 

* * *

 

Step 4: Tell Curt how he felt about… everything. Tell him everything.

 

Owen paced the kitchen, circling their island with a wine glass in his hand. A half-finished bottle of red was sitting on the edge, right next to his phone. It was playing one of his classical playlists, Tchaikovsky on full volume, a good accompaniment to what he felt tonight. Whenever he passed by his phone he’d flick the screen to see if Curt responded to the last 15 messages he sent him. He never did. 

 

He needed this liquid courage, needed this energy to finally talk to Curt about what was going on. Curt easily dodged him, hell, he  _ fled  _ the townhouse as soon as he got ready to go see his friend, avoiding Owen’s eyes as he passed by him and left the scene. Since then he only received three messages from Curt: to say that he was in the bar nearby, that he was sorry for leaving so abruptly, and that he shouldn’t have to wait for Curt to come home. Owen would wait, nonetheless, damn the American’s reassurances. He needed to get this over with (the earlier they talk, the earlier Curt can get help), and he just wished Curt could just be cooperative for o—  

 

The door clattered open. Owen took in a deep breath and checked his watch (22:48, heat signature recognized as Curt Mega), setting the wine glass down and running a hand through his hair. God, he hasn’t even changed out of his work clothes. He toed his shoes off to the side and made his way to the living room.

 

“Nick—” Owen paused as he watched Curt, a familiar flush on his face as he shrugged off his jacket and took off his cap. There was a lack of grace in his movements, an obvious sign that he was drunk, mild annoyance flitting on his features as he struggled with the sleeves. Owen tried to help him out of it when he started thrashing about, finally popping the jacket off and letting it sail across the room and against the wall. “Curt.” 

 

Apparently he didn’t hear Owen and decided to flop onto the couch. For lack of better descriptors, Curt crashed and was out like a light, belly pressed against the comforter and arm dangling off of the couch. He looked like a mess, frankly, hair ruffled and shadows under his eyes apparent. Owen watched as he snored softly with his face pressed against a throw pillow. He wondered if he can do anything to make him the very least comfortable.

 

Oh, he still had his boots on. Owen scrambled to take care of that, undoing the laces and tugging harshly to loosen it and get it off of Curt. They looked old and sturdy, worn from years of usage, and obviously a bit too tight for Curt’s size. It was a bit of a struggle to remove them as Owen tried again and again at an odd angle, eventually raising his legs so he can sit on the couch and put Curt’s feet on his lap. 

 

“Mom, I can do it myself.” Curt mumbled in his sleep once, then stilled. 

 

The boots were off after a few more minutes of struggle. Owen looked around to see what else Curt would need help with, deciding against pulling off his pants no matter how uncomfortable that would be for him. He got off of the couch to tug the comforter from under Curt, awkwardly having to lift him every now and then to avoid dragging him along with it. Owen pulled it over Curt and tucked it into the cushions, a partial effort to keep him pinned to the couch. 

 

Now there was the jacket. Owen made his way to it when he noticed something sticking out of its inner pocket, the black box that Curt was hiding from him a few hours ago. He crouched down and gingerly picked it up, holding it up to the light to see if it had any other markings on it. Besides the engraved CIA insignia, there was nothing on it, and the box itself wasn’t so heavy. He flicked his eyes to Curt’s prone form, listening for the soft snores, and wondered if he should open the box. 

 

He did. Owen stared at the rows of glass capsules with metal caps on the end of each, liquid within them colorless when held up against the light. There were 16 in total. It came with a note.  

 

_ Curt, if you’re gonna try using this to knock anyone else out, I don’t think it’s the best idea. Love, Barb.  _

 

Frowning, Owen took one of them from its slot and removed the metal cap, surprised to find a thick needle that was about an inch long. His heart thundered against his chest as he realized what he was holding was a tranquilizer, tailored to fit Curt’s biodata to knock him out easily. He returned the cap and put the serum back in its slot, closing the box and putting it back in the jacket’s inner pocket. He left the jacket on the ground. He didn’t know what to do with it.

 

Owen’s mind was spinning as he flopped on the chair right next to the couch. Curt looked so peaceful when he was sleeping, as if he lacked any worries and was anything but a spy on a mission. Owen never considered that he’d ever find the need to… god, he can’t even admit it to himself. Did Curt see himself as too much of a threat that he felt the need to bring around tranqs to sedate himself should he become too much? Was he… was he  _ afraid _ of what he can do when he was unhinged? Owen knew that Curt was no monster, that he was just as human as he was, but it just hurt to realize that Curt saw himself as something dangerous, something that had to be put down.

 

He considered calling Cynthia or Daniels about it, to ask them to let Curt get a psychiatric assessment. God, didn’t they both go through one before the mission? Did Curt just faked his way through his or did they turn a blind eye to his situation? Either way, he didn’t know how to talk about it, and he settled on telling Vincent about it on Monday when they see each other once more. He ran a hand over his face, exhaustion whittling away his emotions. Owen decided to get some rest, stay there in case Curt needed him. Really, it was just to reassure himself that Curt wouldn’t try anything while he’s alone.

 

When he closed his eyes he thought of Curt, and worried of what he had to say when dawn breaks.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore and notes! Lore and notes! 
> 
> \- The song of this chapter is Make a Little Money by Royal Deluxe, with its designated scene being the truck drive :)  
> \- The official word count is 10,469. I don't know how we got there. I'm also afraid.  
> \- There are a few bits of this chapter that seem much more poetic than usual. You can thank the MKO team for that. What's MKO? We'll see ;)  
> \- Owen's vlogging will make a comeback in the following chapters, I hope y'all like them :)  
> \- The second 5+1 incident is here when Curt sleepily says, "I love you."  
> \- Vincent is a deaf character who got injured in the Cologne mission following an explosion that impacted his eardrums. Owen regrets what's happened on that mission and has made an effort to try and make Vincent comfortable with his disability. I've yet to speak this in the fic but Owen came with Vincent to his British Sign Language (BSL) classes.  
> \- At first, when I entered the SAF server, I really thought I wouldn't get fixated on Tatiana/Barb, but to my surprise, I did! We've been waiting to feature their relationship lightly in this story and here we are!!  
> \- The imagery of Tatiana and Curt in the bar with the Inferno sign is based on my friend's Instagram post of herself under the same sign. The way the lighting looked was too good to pass up.  
> \- The mentioned Tchaikovsky piece is Valse Sentimentale, really love that one!!  
> \- Those tranquilizers will make an appearance in succeeding chapters!! Please watch out for them ;) 
> 
> As always, please leave your kudos and comments, thank you so much!!!


	7. only honest when it rains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS: Panic attacks, discussion of trauma, discussion of terrorist attacks. If you cannot handle it, please don't read the chapter. We'll summarize the whole chapter in the end notes. 
> 
> We'd like to dedicate this chapter to Camille aka Wrist. Please check out her tumblr (chemical-cactus), her art's good shit!!
> 
> Due to the sheer stress this chapter gave me and the team, we'll be taking a few extra days to roll out the next chapter, because that one will be even more painful to churn out for us. Shit is pretty much gonna go downhill from here and honestly we need the emotional strength to go through writing everything because man, y'all have no idea how much it hurts to write all of this!!
> 
> I give my love to Cailin, Lilly, and Percy for holding hands with me while we made this chapter. We've all made contributions to this work and frankly speaking, it was fun (despite the pain of procuring it). 
> 
> Without further ado, please have our work.

Owen woke up to the quiet pattering of rain against the windowpane, the chill of the morning rain creeping into their townhouse and blanketing the Manhattan air with a sleepiness unfamiliar to a city so hectic and busy with its own musings. New York felt quiet for once, muted as if it took the time to pause and feel the rain against its face. Dawn didn’t break, it dripped from cracks between clouds and morning fog in raindrops and misty cool. It came with a peacefulness he didn’t recognize as the sunrise, a softness he didn’t expect of the New York morning. 

 

He fell asleep in his work clothes, now crumpled and dirty from stewing in them for the past few hours. It was always so uncomfortable to wake up in them after being in them for too long, and he felt so dirty and unsettled for wearing them. Owen looked down at himself and clicked his tongue in distaste, reaching up to unbutton his dress shirt to discard it to the side. In the haziness of his mind it didn't even occur to him why he woke up at such an hour, where exactly he was, and why his ass was so sore from sitting down for a prolonged period of ti—

 

“ _Nate_.” That had his attention. His (fake) name rose over the constant white noise of the rainfall, bringing his attention to the figure that laid on the couch. Whatever thought Owen had about stripping out of his suit was forgotten as he realized that he was here in the living room with Curt just across him. Everything came back in rapid succession: dinner, the plan, tranquilizers, step 4, and a small wine hangover creeping at the back of his skull. Owen looked at Curt as the man called his name again, flopped on his back, eyes covered by his arm in a flimsy attempt of hiding from the sun. “C’mere.” 

 

It’s unsurprising that Curt managed to kick the covers off of himself, leaving part of his torso exposed to the cold and sleepy sunlight. Rainy mornings always came with a sort of shine that was soft, gentle on the eyes. It cast little shadows on Curt's skin, exposing old scars and cuts that wrapped around his biceps and forearms. He looked a little darker now that Owen could see better. He had a healthy tan. Not too pale.

 

“C’mere, please,” Curt whined, a tone Owen hasn't heard in a very long time. He could do nothing but obey it. Instincts scrambled to figure out which part of the plan this was, if this was part of their relationship as husbands or as partners, and if ultimately he should forego his dress pants and walk around their living room in his boxers. Owen stood and flexed his chair sore muscles, rotated his neck to pop the cricks there with a sigh, before trudging a few feet away to where Curt was.

 

Despite the apparent sleepiness and exhaustion that Curt still possessed, it was a real surprise to Owen when he was pulled down and flipped onto his back. He crashed against the couch and sqwalked uselessly as he and Curt awkwardly rearranged themselves on the couch, elbows jabbing into sides and hands landing on each other before they settled. The comforter was placed over the both of them to safely keep them pinned to the couch. Curt was the one draped on him now. 

 

And he was sleepy, still looked so weary and tired from yesterday's work. He was much heavier than he last recalled, though that may be because he's now thicker and fuller. Curt nuzzled his nose against Owen's chest and near purred, mouth pulled in an eternally small smile, both arms wrapped around his middle to keep him there. Owen's breath stuttered as he watched tranquility wash over Curt's face, a deep sigh from his lips bringing warmth to his skin. He looked content. Quiet. Peaceful, maybe. 

 

"Warm." That's all he said. He didn't even open his eyes to regard Owen. "S'good. Warm's good."

 

He wondered to himself why Curt asked him to lie here with him, when on other days he wouldn't want to be near Owen. Even back then, Curt wasn't exactly the touchy type of person. What exactly changed between them, what exactly did Curt need from him this time? Owen wouldn't blame him if he was using the cover to get some body warmth from other people, but he hoped that Curt would at the very least tell him that it was an act so that Owen wouldn't wonder why. He reached up and gently rubbed circles on Curt's back with his thumb, dragging the pad over soft fabric and the occasional bump of scar tissue. The answer dawned on him as he rubbed his back.

 

"Darling, are your scars aching again?" Curt hummed in response, a deep rumble that vibrated against his chest and rumbled through Owen's. Owen nodded understandingly as he tilted his head to better see Curt. There was a tiny bit of discomfort in those features as he pulled a hand out to scratch something on his side. Their wrists bumped into each other for a moment and Owen gently retracted his own hand. "Ah, we should get that checked."

 

"Not yet." Curt whined and wrapped his arms around Owen tighter. "Stay." 

 

It's jarring how Curt can so easily want touch for one moment and suddenly be repulsed by it in the next. It made it difficult to determine what exactly he needed for the time being, what he wanted from Owen for comfort. Nonetheless, Owen will try and catch up to those needs, even if it means holding Curt in the early morning of rainy New York. Owen recalled the calming words of Vincent from the other day, how that push and pull between need and hate was normal behavior for people like Curt. This was fine. Everything will be alright. He's gonna be fine. 

 

He hesitantly reached up to gently run a hand through Curt's hair. It was a nice surprise to feel the gradience shift from the familiar floof of his curls to the sharp prickling bits of undercut. Curt was warm, a practical furnace, and it surprised Owen that he would still need him for warmth. When he looked at Curt he saw the way light struck the window and scattered over the room, catching on his hand’s golden band perched atop Curt’s head. He glowed under the brilliance of the sunlight, crowned in its rays to become... ethereal. A masterpiece. An angel. 

 

Owen’s heart fluttered against his chest. _God, help him._ “I’m right here where you need me.” 

 

“You better be.” Curt murmured and sank back to rest his head back against Owen’s chest. 

 

Owen stared up at the ceiling as he kept stroking Curt’s hair, feeling the telltale curl of lips against his bare chest as he tried to wait for sleep to return to him. He waited until Curt’s breathing evened out and his shoulders relaxed, until he heard the soft snores and felt the warm breath against skin. He looked down just for a moment to check if Curt was actually asleep, to see if he’s drifted back to somewhere peaceful and quiet.

 

“I love you.” Owen murmured, and said nothing more.

 

* * *

 

The rain was consistent for the rest of the morning, becoming a torrential downpour in the coming hours of the day. It was comforting white noise in the backdrop of their living room, bringing a sense of calmness to the sleepy atmosphere of the room. Today was gonna be a rainy day for New York, not that Curt minded. It meant that the weather was a little cooler for once, perfect for holing up on the couch and watching countless movies and TV shows. That could also mean spending time with Owen, probably with the excuse to not do any Chimera-related work (in the name of keeping up covers, maybe), and just relax with each other. That’s something Curt hasn’t done in a very long time, and he wanted to do it now.

 

When he woke up, he was surprised to find himself resting against Owen’s bare chest. It took him a bit to shake the pins and needles from his arms, to slowly extract them from underneath Owen, and to push himself off of the couch to check what time it was. It was a little bit past 9 in the morning, approaching the standard hours of brunch. That sounded like a good idea. Curt turned his attention back to Owen, taking note of the stubble that was just starting to grow on his face, the circles under his eyes that looked a little darker. He looked at his torso and slowly traced the scars on Owen’s skin, marking out what was new and what was old with his fingertips.

 

It seemed as if neither were given the chance to do any major Chimera work while they were separated for four years. Curt always thought that Owen would be jet setting all over the world in bespoke suits and fast sports cars, with pretty girls perched on his lap and a gun in his pocket. He did fit the standard Bond charm, after all. He couldn't imagine Owen sitting in office rooms with Europol agents, staring down pictures of pedophiles and child traffickers. 

 

And it seemed to be an ugly job too, at that. The new scars he had, while tiny and mostly healed, were telltale of what he had to go through. He could pick out new gunshot wounds and stab marks, mostly healed to be faint white lines on skin. It disgusted him to consider who put them there, what kind of people justified their work and were willing to kill in the name of it. At least Owen got medical attention as soon as his work was done. That was a rarity whenever the both of them were on a case.

 

He was too caught up in his thoughts to realize movement underneath him.

 

“Stop that,” Owen stirred and giggled, no heat in his words, and if Curt flushed he said nothing about it. 

 

It was past 10 o'clock now. They were both showered and dressed, with Owen lounging on the chair across him, skimming his phone for any nearby cafes that served brunch. Curt insisted, because he wasn’t in the mood to cook and he wanted to be able to explore New York for once, that they eat out. It’s not like they were broke or anything. They had the funds for it, and Curt knew that they’d be spending the rest of the day indoors thanks to the rain. Initially, Owen was wary of the suggestion, reasoning that the rain may keep them from returning home, and Curt waved his hand dismally at the suggestion.

 

He just needed an excuse to get out. While he didn’t mind being cooped up in a townhouse with Owen Carvour of all people, it would kill him to stay indoors when he could be out doing something. The rain wasn't gonna stop him from doing something fun. The routine of waking up, going to work, and returning home was slowly starting to bore him, and no matter how hard he tried, he just can’t stay in one place for too long. Even in the Middle East, he had something to do while he was in the safe houses. He still did some sort of work while cooped up in those shitty places. Now? There was hardly much to talk about concerning the mission. 

 

“There’s a cafe down the street, hardly even a walk at that.” Owen said as he looked up from his phone for the nth time. He’ll admit he’s being picky now. Curt needed something that was far enough that he can take a nice long walk but near enough that it would be within good running distance should it start pouring harder than either of them assumed. So far he’s rejected at least 5 different establishments for the following reasons, in order: prices (twice), distance, and bad alcohol. “Serves some really good mojitos, says the review.” 

 

“Tell me about their food then we’ll talk.” Curt sighed after a moment, leg practically bouncing before he stood from the couch and paced the living room. God, he just _really_ wanted to get out of the house. Earlier Pim and Xander texted him with a picture of the both of them in Xander’s room, playing some video game that he’s yet to be informed of. Pim added with it a caption that read: _yeet_. He still had no idea what that word meant. 

 

“Now don’t be short with me, love.” Was he? He turned to see Owen watching him steadily, phone set down with a frown on his face. Owen has been so careful with him as of late, like he was walking on eggshells. While it bothered Curt, right now it was just downright confusing. Owen looked concerned. Curt must have seemed antsy. Was it that obvious? He hoped not. “Sit down before you weather a path into the carpet.” 

 

For a second, something in him answered on his behalf before he can think too hard on it. It felt familiar, a spark of something from years before he was sent to the desert to work. Something bubbled in his chest and demanded it have a say to the narrative. It was like something in him connected for just a split second to make… whatever this was. “Make me.” 

 

Even Owen seemed to notice it. He blinked, taken aback, leaning back in his seat as he looked at Curt. There was a bit of… curiosity, was that it? There was curiosity in Owen’s eyes, interested in the Curt’s shift in tone. It just felt _right_ to flit back to something old and distant from long ago. For that time he felt like he was more like the man he was four years ago, before he left for Syria and everything that came with that. 

 

Owen broke into a smile, one that dripped in charm and allure, before replying. “I wouldn’t say that if I were you, Nick.”   

 

They managed to find a cafe that suited Curt’s standards (“And you call _me_ finicky, love.”), and from there ventured out. Curt was practically beaming while walking to the cafe, obviously in high spirits as he tried not to step on puddles too hard. The air was nice and cool and the rain had settled to a slight drizzle, which wasn’t so bad. It vaguely reminded him of snow, a concept Curt has missed dearly since being stationed in the Middle East. 

 

“I’m actually in a good mood for a piña colada,” Owen mused beside him, tilting his head up to survey the clouds overhead. He was wearing that old tattered jacket of his again, a button down and jeans underneath, boots stepping on the puddles a little too loudly. Earlier he was muttering about how he couldn’t escape the London weather, of how this was so common in his side of the pond. 

 

Curt looked at him and frowned, amused, “Didn’t take you as the type for that.” 

 

“I thought so too, until I got sent to the Bahamas.” 

 

“For work or for pleasure?” 

 

“I can do both on the job, Curt.” Owen laughed, bright and carefree, before his smile faded away. It seemed as if the brief recess for the rain was over, as it has now intensified just as they were halfway down the road. Curt wrinkled his nose as he felt the rain pelted down on his head, rummaging through his inner coat pockets for the umbrella he stored in there. His fingers brushed against his pistol and two of his tranquilizers, but no umbrella. Owen was also rummaging through his. “Oh, bloody hell!”  

 

They quickly made their way down the road, feet splashing against puddles as they tried to get to the cafe as quickly as possible. Curt didn’t even notice he was getting wet until Owen pulled him closer with one arm, shrugging his jacket off while at it, then hoisting it above their heads in an attempt to shield them from the rain. Owen smelled strongly like camellias, and Curt’s memories jumped back to that altar in Virginia. He struggled to settle the rapid beating of his heart as he huddled closer to get away from the rain. 

 

The cafe they found themselves in was called the Grindstone, one of the many artisan coffee shops that dotted the vicinity of Manhattan. It had that rustic, hipster feel to it, made of cement floors and plain walls painted over with murals and quotes from various personalities. Picture frames dotted some walls with magazine clippings and reviews of the shop's fame among New Yorkers and diplomats alike. Some frames also had pictures of said personalities too, like the Secretary-General in one of them and a third world country president in the next. The coffee shop had the aesthetic of an industrial building made chic, the greys and steel complemented with the dark wooden furniture and black leather seating. 

 

It had the added novelty of being a few blocks away from the United Nations Headquarters, so it was no surprise to Curt when he noticed multiple nationalities in the perimeter when he and Owen stepped into the establishment. He vaguely recalled this cafe popping up within intelligence circles as one of the best places to be in, with all of the staff sworn to secrecy for whatever they hear from those who frequent it. Curt remembered a particular rumor being spread that it was the go-to of the UN Task Force during the time of that kidnapping incident a year ago. If the higher-ups of that team approved of the place, then it was surely a good place to be in.

 

Brunch was good, to say the least. The food was surprisingly well-proportioned for their given prices, and the drinks they were served were perfect complements to the meal. The ambiance of the place wasn't too loud and hectic, in fact, it was more laid back and chill compared to what Curt expected. The lack of customers meant Curt and Owen could talk freely about anything and everything under the sun without worrying about eavesdroppers. Owen got to tell him about the people who worked in the Consulate while Curt got to tell him about the five personalities he met during the bread run.

 

After about an hour or so, the rain settled back to become a faint drizzle. It was time to bill out and return home, despite the fact that Curt wanted to stay a little longer. It was nice to be out of the house every now and then, but alas, it was time to go home. Curt took the tab from the waiter's hand and smiled at Owen, who was also reaching to take it. “This is mine.” 

 

“Oh, no, you picked up the tab last time, darling.” Owen plucked the tab from Curt before he can open it. He can only watch as Owen flipped it open to read the bill. His reaction was unreadable. "It's my turn now." 

 

“No, it’s not.” They devolved into argument at that, quiet so as not to disturb the other patrons of the establishment. Owen insisted that because he had the higher pay of the two of them (which was a truth in their cover, a lie in reality), he should take care of the bill. Curt, meanwhile reasoned that it was his idea to go out for brunch, so it was his job to pay. At one point one of them tried to split the bill, but that thought was long forgotten by the time they realized they spent half of the past hour arguing.  

 

“Nate, babe,” Curt reached over, fingers interlacing for the briefest of moments, before he drifted from them and grabbed for Owen’s wrist. He’ll admit that he was too afraid to linger further, in fear of what his poor heart will tell him when he warmed to that touch. For a split second his fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist to feel for the pulse there, strong and steady underneath his skin. Owen looked up at him with a blink of surprise, a flush quickly skirting up to his face, before he turned away and mumbled something Curt couldn’t hear. “I’ll pay for this one.” 

 

“If you say so,” Owen mumbled, eyes looking at anything and anyone besides Curt’s hand on his wrist. Curt fought back the proud grin on his face as he took the bill and took out his wallet.

 

* * *

 

Curt has been… docile the whole day. Domestic was probably the better word. Gentle. Loving. He had his arm stretched out on the couch behind them, hand settling comfortably on Owen’s arm, head leaning on his shoulder. Either he was doing it in the name of the cover or he was doing it in the name of companionship was something Owen wasn’t sure of. It was as if he was aware of what day it was and what it meant to Owen. He doesn’t recall telling Curt about it, for sure, but would he have known either way? It felt like Curt knew what was going on and was playing nice for the day. Owen didn’t know if he liked or hated that concept. 

 

And how was Owen on this fine, rainy day? He couldn’t describe it, if he was being honest. He’s been unsettled as soon as he realized what day it was today, tetchy at the very least, and he wasn’t sure how he can best articulate it without sounding like an emotional child who didn’t know how to get over trauma. Every instinct in him called for him to call his mother or his siblings, to keep up with their yearly rituals (traditions?) done on this day. Ah well, there were _some_ things that can be done on this day, like what he was doing now. 

 

After a painful trawl through the ungodly number of American channels, Owen finally found what he was looking for. He settled back onto the couch just as the familiar title cards played. It wasn’t a habit of his to watch the BBC news — he had enough going on in his cover life without memories of home — but on this occasion, he felt the exception was necessary. Curt too seemed to notice the change in habit and nudged Owen quizzically, a tiny frown on his face.

 

“Really?” 

 

“It’s…” Owen paused, gaze passing between Curt and the television screen. He was unsure of how to explain succinctly. “It’s just important to me, okay?”

 

Curt watched him for a moment, then turned to watch as the news anchor appeared on the screen with her chipper voice and thick RP accent. Owen regarded the usual story highlights of useless politicians and meaningless scandals with disinterest; he was waiting for one alone. He can already hear Vincent or Carys giving him the runthrough of the latest bullshit that’s going on in the mainland, so he found no use of listening to the news drone on about it. He drummed his fingers on his leg impatiently as he felt Curt’s gaze flit between him and the screen. 

 

“Three police officers have been injured as suspected New IRA riots break out once again in Londonderry.”

 

Owen’s blood ran cold at the mention. He could taste the bile in his throat as his fingers stilled on his leg, and he could feel nothing but ice run down to numb his body. The news bit was practically a curveball, something he didn’t expect to come at a time like this. The group’s name was one he hadn’t heard in a long while. No matter what new name they claimed, it was still the same organization, still the same crimes committed.

 

Still the same innocent people hurt.

 

* * *

 

_Owen always hated hospitals. They were just… the opposite of his favorite place in the world, which was the family study. The hallways were just so bright, with washed out white walls and bright linoleum tiles that only serve as reflectors for the glaring fluorescent lights overhead. It was completely sterile, hell, it even smelled like disinfectant. It was so sharp and pungent that he was near tempted to pinch his nose to not smell it._

 

_The hallways were alive with people running about, from nurses in immaculately white uniforms splotched with blood to worried parents and spouses in search for their loved ones. Some patients were made to lie in the hallways because there were no more rooms for them, hunched over in chairs and beds with IVs and white bandaging on their bodies. Whenever Owen looked down, he can see a mix of dirt and blood and grime on the tiling, his reflection barely seen on the surface. He grimaced as he gripped his sister’s hand tighter and led her through the hallway._

 

_“Where’s Mummy?” Odette’s voice was so thin, wafery, and Owen couldn’t remember if it was always like that. She could sound as calm as she wanted to, but she was obviously also so worried. They hadn’t heard from their mother since she left with her friends to go shopping for the baby shower. He can still remember how she pressed a kiss on his cheek and promised to bring home some pastries from the bakery he really liked. He wished that wouldn’t be the last time he heard from her. “Owen, where’s Mummy?”_

 

_“You’re mummy’s over here, love.” Their governess, a blonde lady named Mrs. Irving, spoke up as she gently ushered them into a quieter hallway, one that wasn’t so filled with patients and nurses. A passing nurse nodded at them, her clothes covered in dark crimson, face pale and sweaty. When he turned to watch her go he noticed how her hands were trembling. He wondered who she took care of._

 

_Dad wasn’t in the hospital room, not that Owen expected him to be there. He was somewhere in Wales for a business conference when the explosion occurred, and he had to argue with their chauffeur and Mrs. Irving to look for Mummy in the surrounding hospitals of the blast. It was originally his job to go there on his own, but Odette insisted on coming with him as soon as she heard that Mummy wasn’t responding to Owen’s calls._

 

_What worried him was the baby that was swelling in Mummy’s belly. She promised him that he was finally gonna have a baby brother to play with, and even offered to take his suggestion of named to call him, provided it started with the letter O. He could already imagine it: playing blocks with his brother or running down the gardens with him. Owen recalled how ecstatic he was when she told him, how he jumped to wrap his arms around her and sob his gratitude into her shoulder._

 

_Now, he can only feel terror as he stepped into the hospital room, Mrs. Irving behind them to gently nudge them forward. The blinds were shut so as to keep the sunlight from entering the room, the only light coming from the opened door and a lamp on the side. Multiple machines were set up around the bed, monitors glowing with neon green numbers and lines, and he had no idea what most of them were for. Owen squeezed Odette’s hand tightly (or had she squeezed his?) and stepped forward, closer to the bed, just when he can see his mother’s face in the darkness._

 

_She looked so still—_

 

* * *

 

Owen took a deep breath as he returned to reality, near jumping as he realized where he was. His heart thundered in his chest as he looked around to take stock of the room he was in, taking in the neatly arranged bookshelf and the television screen across him. It was still displaying images of the riots, the yells of Irishmen prominently bouncing around the room. He flinched as a petrol bomb was tossed, landing just in front of the police barricade but thankfully still far enough away to avoid major damage. His hand was gripping something solid and warm. He looked down to see what it was. It was Curt’s wrist. 

 

“These riots, the timing of which being even more poignant on the anniversary of the suspected Provisional IRA Manchester bombing back in 1996, also come with more rising tensions as the infamous “marching season” looms,” The anchor continued, tone too passive for Owen's tastes. He didn’t feel the way Curt’s grip on his arm was tight, squeezing him a little, nor did he hear the worried shift of Curt calling him Owen after repeatedly saying Nate. His blood was practically roaring in his ears. “Many Unionist areas are already preparing...” 

 

Owen waited with bated breath for the anchor to continue on with her report, but no such elaboration came. The story wrapped up with a comment from the Sinn Féin leader, his excuses flimsy and hardly substantial, and no further mention of Manchester was made. He felt the way his chest tightened and his shoulders tensed, telltale signs of his rage rearing its ugly head towards this scene. Impossible. That can’t be the only coverage happening today.

 

“In other news…”

 

Owen couldn’t believe it. He snatched up the remote from next to him and rewound the footage, still gripping Curt tightly with his other hand. He ignored the yelp coming from Curt as he watched the numbers dial back to where it was a minute or so ago, clicking on the subtitles just to be sure. That wasn’t it, that _couldn’t be_ it. 

 

“No. No no _no_ ,” Owen muttered, watching the clips with widening eyes. Curt was worried now, clearly so, asking him over and over what was wrong and what he can do to help him. For a moment there was a hand on his jaw, trying to make him turn to Curt, but he resisted as he kept his eyes glued to the screen. He flinched once again as the same bomb was thrown and the same non-lethal result ensued. The dull monotone of the news anchor seemed to echo in his head as she repeated her previous words.

 

“... _on the anniversary of the suspected Provisional IRA Manchester bombing back in 1996..._ ”

 

 _Some anniversary_ , he thought bitterly, dropping the remote onto the couch and his head into his hands as the music faded out. The hand that was holding Curt’s wrist was faintly warm, a stark contrast to the other’s cold clamminess, and he wasn’t sure if it was the sweat or tears that was getting his face wet. What had before been a comfort now seemed to be taunting him, a reminder of how far away he was from home. Despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but worry. Sure, the violence hadn’t left Ireland for _now_ but…

 

“What’s wrong?” Curt’s voice finally came into focus, reminding him of where he was. His tone was careful, too careful, and Owen hated it. 

 

“What isn’t wrong with that?” Owen sat up as he stared at Curt, for sure looking disheveled and irritable with his hands tightened into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms. Curt was slowly retracting his arm from the back of the couch, movements too measured to even be considered natural. He was acting like Owen was a wounded animal that needed consoling, and Owen couldn’t even begin to articulate how insulting that felt.  

 

“Owen, I… what’s going on?” Curt asked steadily. He was reaching towards him but Owen stood before he had the chance. The hurt that flashed on Curt’s face wasn’t missed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not even for a second. The concern Curt emitted was irritating, his obliviousness grating on his nerves. 

 

“Let me paint you a pretty fucking picture, Curt.” Owen didn’t even try to disguise the venom in his voice. It may not have been aimed at Curt, but he was certainly taking the full force of it, and Owen frankly didn’t give a shit. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, fuelled on by the anger rising in the pit of his stomach. “Imagine this. You’re away from your family on the anniversary of the most painful day of your lives and not only do the same terrorists have the _audacity_ to keep going with their entirely pointless campaign but your own bloody country doesn’t even have the decency to properly respect it!” 

 

“I don’t understand,” Curt said with a frown, tone light and careful. He was leaned back casually on the couch as he tilted his head and watched Owen, lips pouting downwards. “They talked about the IRA stuff and that’s what you’re talking about, right?”

 

“Well done, Curt, you can do word association,” Owen spat. “But if you actually paid attention, you would’ve noticed those bloody wankers over at the BBC view a terrorist attack in just as high a regard as our lovely little royal fucking baby.”

 

“I’m sorry, I—” Owen cut him off.

 

“I just love how much they care, you know? Those bellends couldn’t give less of a shit about any of us! They’re all ‘oh, why should we care, it’s not as if anyone even died!’ as if that’s all that matters!” He waved his hands in the air as he started pacing around the room, the anger too great for him to stand in just one place. He heard more than saw Curt switch off the television with the remote, probably to focus on his passionate rant about the latest tomfuckery courtesy of the government. 

 

Curt’s words came out slowly. “Owen, you can’t blame the entire government for what one news outlet said.”

 

“Oh no? Well, can I blame them for involving us in a war that never needed fighting?” He was livid, he can admit to that. Every resentment he held for the government and what they’ve done burbled up to the surface to be examined front and center. The irony was not lost to him that he spoke so bitterly of it despite working for its premier intelligence agency. “Or for not protecting our citizens in favor of trying to keep hold of a stupid little country, that we gain nothing from ruling over, only to boost their fragile ego?

 

“You’re right though, it’s not their fault. It’s not as if they set the bomb. No, that was all down to the wonderful IRA themselves. Give it up for Ireland’s great defenders! Those twats have been there for a hundred bloody years and I’m sure they aren’t going any time soon! Why? Because it’s never enough for them. Every threat that becomes an attack that leads to another death never quite fulfills them. They just have to keep going and going and they will _never_ stop.”

 

He stared past the couch and at the large French windows on their living room nook, watching the way rain cascading down the glass and disappeared. It was a bright and sunny day when that bomb exploded, practically perfect for fun times in the backyard or at the gardens. Owen couldn’t even remember what he was doing before he found out about the news of the explosion, couldn’t even remember anything else happening except that. 

 

When he looked back to Curt he was still on the couch, hands clasped together between his knees, and his eyes were filled with pity. Worry. He turned away in disgust as Curt stood to get to him. “Owen…” 

 

“The IRA looked past their own country and even looked past their oppressors, choosing to focus on _us_ instead. My family, my friends, my _country_ became victims of meaningless violence and what did it gain?” He murmured slowly as soon as Curt got closer to him, feeling the way Curt hesitantly tried to reach for him and pull him into a hug. He allowed him for a moment, relished the warmth of those arms around him for a moment. “Nothing. _Jack fucking shit_ was gained from their bombing campaign and yet so much was lost. Innocent lives destroyed for these selfish bastards who think they can just toy with people for no goddamn reason.”

 

“Surely they can’t just…” He can practically hear the gears turning in Curt’s head for a reason, as if there was any excuse to any of this. Curt’s heartbeat was strong against his ear, loud and prominent. It was somewhat grounding. “They have a reason Owen, a cause.”

 

His blood ran cold at that. He pushed Curt away and watched as the man staggered back, almost hitting the television screen and catching himself on the table. Disgust rose above everything as he stared him down. “Piss off Curt, what _reason_ do they have that could ever justify this? The IRA does nothing but hurt people, Curt. They’re a paramilitary, it’s all they do. It’s all they _know how_ to do.” 

 

Curt flinched away from Owen at that. His eyes flickered around the room, never settling on one thing but always downcast. His hand moved to fiddle with the edge of his shirt nervously, but Owen was too caught up in his thoughts to notice as he continued down his blazing trail. Meekly, Curt tried to constrict a defense. “I know people in paramilitaries, you know. They’re not all that bad.” 

 

That was where he was wrong. There wasn’t a single universe where that statement would be correct. Sometimes the shit Curt had to say surprised him, forcing him to confront an ugly truth: that he and Curt were vastly different when it came to the morality of their jobs. Sure, they both have done morally ambiguous things in the name of their respective governments, but Curt was just _swimming_ in ambiguity. Most of his missions were classified to Owen, and even if he had the liberty to discuss them, he never dared to try. Owen watched as he continued to twiddle around, eyes glued to the floor, voice quiet. Curt acted like a guilty man. Owen resented it. He opened his mouth and spoke slowly. 

 

“Maybe to you, Curt, but sometimes I don’t even know what you consider good or bad.” Every word he spoke dripped with vitriol. Every word he said was meant to nail down a point. He meant what he had to say to Curt. His thoughts swirled as he continued speaking, mockery hanging from every syllable. “You’re a yes-man to whatever Cynthia wants you to do in the name of the United States government, because that’s all you _can_ do about it, right? Further American democracy, save the world, were you ever the hero, Curt?” 

 

“I’m not saying I am—” Owen cut him off again.

 

“You act a lot like you do. It’s all you Americans seem to do, paint yourselves as the heroes. In reality? People like you—” Here Owen turned an accusing finger on Curt, jabbing it into his chest. “You’re nothing more than a glorified attack dog. Begging at the heels of your government and defending them while they throw you the scraps from their table. All they have to do is point you at a direction and you’ll go yapping off without question.”

 

What followed was silence, a brief pause from the torrents of anger that rained down in their townhouse. The anger faded slightly for a moment when Owen realized how Curt had drawn into himself, the rage giving way to concern. He’s gone too far. Oh, _God,_ he’s gone too far. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Owen moved to take Curt’s hand in an attempt to reassure him, restore his face from the stony mask it had become. He gently rubbed circles in the inside of his wrist, “I really just…” 

 

“I’m fine, Nate, don’t worry about it.” Curt’s voice was tense as he batted his hand away, gaze distant. It clenched his heart. The fact that he’s been called Nate goes unignored. “You’re right anyway.” 

 

The pair stood in the most uncomfortable silence Owen had ever experienced for what was either two minutes or two hours. He went too far, didn’t he? He knew that Curt isn’t responsible for his country’s past. He knows _Curt_ , the charming American man (no, not operative) who looked good in a tux and a beer in hand. He wasn’t capable of the horrendous things he’s seen from paramilitaries, his Curt wasn’t that cruel. Damn it, he fucked up. He should say something, try to apologize, try to make it right, try to—

 

“I’m gonna go for a jog.” Curt’s clipped statement pulled Owen from his thoughts and back to reality. Owen looked over Curt’s shoulder and glanced outside through the bay window to the street outside. The rain was still coming down in buckets. The sky just flashed with brilliant lightning with a clap of thunder quickly following him.

 

Owen turned to the entryway, “Curt, are you sure—” 

 

He was already gone.

 

Shit.

 

* * *

 

Cold everything was cold. Windbreaker cold shirt cold sweatpants cold socks cold shoes cold skin cold cold skin cold shoes cold socks cold sweatpants cold shirt cold windbreaker. Cold was everything cold. 

 

Pitter patter rain pitter patter rain pitter patter rain raining rained still raining? Thundered down thundering down too loudly too quickly on shoulder blades pitter patter patter pitter strong and relentless rain. The rain was a crescendo of noise pitter patter and blur and static nothing heard pitter patter. What feet? Feet beat beating will beat have beat will eventually beat harshly against pavement pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter. 

 

The rain was nothing compared to the sound of him running down Manhattan's streets. 

 

Pitter patter. _Your next assignment is in Syria you heard the shit the president’s been spouting out about the ISIL jihadists over in the desert you will be assigned to an analyst already stationed there be careful so careful he will break her your partner has been through shit Mega go easy she is not Carvour she’s a stranger your plane leaves tonight get packing you will be there until the job is done (or until you die) no you can't say goodbye this is classified we do not speak of this not even once your mother doesn’t need to know you will learn more in this file don't you fuck this up Mega._

 

Pitter patter.

 

_Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt._

 

_Scream for your god, property. Your government can't hear you now._

 

Pitter patter.

 

_You don’t call often I’ve done something bad I’ve done something horrible oh god what schmoo what’s wrong what did you have to do this time I can’t say I can’t tell you a word I am nothing but demented by what had to be done I’m sorry Curtis I can’t talk about the job Mom the job is what it is it is what I am and what I’m made for I have to do it I know schmoo just pray when you’re troubled why would I pray what has prayer ever done for me what has the god above ever done for me I think about you everyday Mom, I’m sorry._

 

_I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you._

 

Curt tilted his head up to the sky to watch it rush to meet him (or was he falling into it?) eyes dazed and unfocused and out of it he tried to focus (he tried, he’s sorry, he’s _tried_ ) on the skyscrapers that towered fell into him above him dark clouds above but nothing seemed to be going right. (Was anything ever right?) Water was running pitter patter patter pitter into his eyes goddamnit goddamnit (tears?) fucking hell and his hands felt too heavy when he reached over to wipe them away. Every touch of his skin against his own face was electric, (burned like those electrocutions) like everything burned in agony. Agony. Agony? Agonizing? Agonized? Agony. Agony. His skin burned. His eyes did, too. 

 

_Do you know the state you were in when they found you Mega you look like shit I feel like shit I’m surprised you’re not dead I wish I was don’t say such a thing oh God oh Allah oh whatever version of the big man in the sky I could have died you could have died what does Cynthia wants you in bed rest no don’t move stop moving stop moving STOP MOVING stop moving sit down calm down stay there good you’re bleeding stop it STOP STOP—_

 

 **_STOP—_ **

 

Stop. Pitter patter. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. Inhale.

 

 _You hardly sleep of course I don’t are you okay yeah sure you were screaming I’m fine I’m_ fine _leave me be jeez cool down I’m sorry don’t be sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry all I’m ever good at is at breaking things and I’m just tired if you say so it’s okay I’m here when you need me you were never there I just really worry no stop lying I don’t you never I can’t why I don’t see you lie all of you lie it’s the job it’s all we know you lie badly stop that I can’t breathe—_

 

Hearts beat _so_ so so loudly when you exert effort on yourself. And that’s weird. Very. Very weird. It’s just so… noisy like it wants to tell everyone that you’re trying so hard to breathe. _(I’m sorry. I’m trying to breathe. Breathing is so hard to do right now, I can’t breathe. It hurts.)_ Like it wants to broadcast its existence like a warning light on a console a telltale threat of breaking apart if pushed to the limits (you shouldn’t have limits!). Curt remembered thinking of it like that as a child, when his heart beat so hard he thought it would pop out. How comical. How childish. But it was what he felt now. 

 

Pitter patter. 

 

Exhale. Where is he? He couldn’t tell. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. Odd. He checked the caller’s ID.

 

Owen. Passionate, vibrant, magnificent. He had such a bright smile whenever he looked at Curt, carried a kindness he hasn’t seen in… a while. He’s been such a good… husband? Owen counted as his husband now, or was that Nate? He didn’t know, Curt didn’t know, the lines between Owen and Nate have long been crossed even before this mission even began. But beyond that, he’s been a good husband. Curt knew he was trying to be nice. Whether or not it was for the cover, he knew Owen doesn’t have to. His worry was unnecessary. Curt was still _functional_ , right? Then that’s all that matters.

 

Would Owen be worried? No, why would he? It’s not like he cared about Curt, anyway. What mattered was the mission, and oh god, he’s blown it, has he? Fantastic, just another thing he botched. Just another thing he ruined. Cynthia was right about her occasional jabs at him. It’s all he’s ever good at. 

 

_Jesus fucking Christ Mega that was a shit show out there you’re just abso-fucking-lutely reckless with no fucking care about me who will be doing all the paperwork to save your sorry ass do you even have anything to say for yourself we could sue you for nearly damaging government property Simmons almost died there you are so fucking dead I swear to shitting god I will shove your foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting shitty fake leather for weeks fuck you fuck you fuck you God fucking damnit Mega you keep messing up is that all you know how to do?_

 

 _Is that all you know how to do?_ Is _that all you know how to do?_ **_Is that all you know how to do?_ **

 

Inhale. Exhale. 

 

_All you’ll ever touch and cherish will break._

 

Pitter patter. 

 

He saw a blur of color, small and unseeming, and skidded away to avoid it. Curt’s world tilted as he quickly came face to face with the pavement, hands pushed forward to break his fall. Elbows gave way and his cheek was cold, wet and damp, getting a noseful of concrete digging harshly against his skin. Something hurt. Something stung. There was a quiet meow, something rough and ticklish against his temple, and he closed his eyes to relish the rain and the footsteps of New Yorkers around him. 

 

Orange. Small. Tiny. It was a kitten. The ball of fluff meowed again, the sound pitiful. God, he couldn’t go one second without messing something up today, could he. Curt pushed himself to his feet, hissing at the feeling of his skinned palms on the damp concrete. The kitten, apparently very interested in him, clambered over to paw at his leg. In a split second decision, likely not helped by the fact that he was still pretty out of it, Curt scooped up the kitten. He slowly scratched its head as he started to walk, still with no particular direction in mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Owen paced furiously up and down the entryway to the townhouse, mind filled with his worries and anxieties. He’s fucked it up, alright, pushed Curt away to a point where he’ll never try to talk to Owen about his worries ever again. Damn his moment of recklessness. He was usually more composed, more capable of controlling himself, but that didn’t seem to be the case earlier. Outside the rain refused to cease pouring, the occasional thunder making an appearance with its loud booms and roars. Owen worried if loud noises triggered Curt in any way. The thought coiled something in his stomach. 

 

He gripped his phone in one hand and a large, white towel in the other as he walked up and down the hallway, the icon of Vincent on the screen as well as the duration of the call. Curt didn't step out of the house with an umbrella nor anything that can shield him from the rain. The call on his phone has been running for a little over ten minutes. Curt has been gone for two hours.  

 

"I'm just worried I did the wrong thing, Vincent." Owen sighed, mostly to himself. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, fighting back the brunt of his worries as they incessantly reminded him of his crimes. Curt didn’t deserve everything he had to say about the IRA or him. Owen had no right to yell at him about it. He had to make it right to him somehow, and he was still trying to formulate an apology that sounded decent enough for his tastes.  

 

"Well you can always make up for it, boss.” That was what he liked about the kid: he didn’t skirt around or make up bullshit to make him feel better. He was blunt when it was necessary, and right now he needed someone to tell him that he made the wrong move. The kid paused, probably to consider what words to use, before speaking again. "What matters now is that your mum and brother are still alive, yeah?"

 

"It doesn't change the fact that the IRA—" The sound of the front door opening caused Owen to abruptly end his sentence, whipping his head towards it. Curt’s hunched figure came into view as he held his phone up to have the microphone closer to his mouth. “Vincent, I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Boss, is everything—” Owen hung up. He pocketed his phone as he hastily made his way to the door. Curt's face was blank, almost as if he was lost and he entered the wrong home, gaze fixed on the floor. He sweeped his gaze slowly around the room, unrecognizing, making Owen's heart twinge at the sight. He gently wrapped the towel around Curt's shoulders and took a side of it to pat it gently on his face, trying to be delicate by using as little force as possible. What he didn't expect was Curt's knees buckling the moment the door was closed. Alarmed, Owen could do nothing but catch him and gently set him down until they were sitting in the middle of the hallway. 

 

“Nick! Look, I'm right here, love. Easy now, take deep breaths, I almost thought I lost you there.” Owen clammored, quickly assessing Curt for any injury as he wrapped him in a tight embrace. His hands skittered over his dripping skin worriedly, turning limbs and pulling up fabric to see if anything happened. Curt was drenched in rain, his skin was practically freezing to the touch, and Owen was worried with the way he trembled and shook under his hands. 

 

"My name's Curt." He sounded confused, speaking the words slowly as if testing them on his tongue. God, just how out of it was he that the cover story slipped from his conscience? Curt was holding something close to his chest, almost protectively, and he seemed reluctant to show if it was an injury or not. Owen pulled away just a little to try and tug his arms loose. God, he hoped he didn't get injured while he was out in the streets. Owen wouldn't forgive himself if that was the case. 

 

"Yes, love, your name's Curt. Sorry about that." Owen nodded and returned to his ministrations, gently patting him down with the towel. “Jesus, you’re soaked. Come here, I’ll get you a cuppa—"

 

Curt shook his head, hard. Owen frowned as he tried to reason with Curt about needing to get him warm again, before he was silenced by his shifting and ruffling. Slowly Curt slackened his arms to reveal a blur of orange and bright, grey eyes, a pair of ears twitching as it acclimated to its new environment. Its meow was tiny, high pitched, and the one thing that seemed to make Curt speak. “His name’s Agent.”  

 

"Where did you get him, love?" Owen frowned as Curt held the kitten up for closer examination. It looked famished, thin, and was clearly the runt of the litter before it was abandoned by its mother. His heart clenched as he gently took it from Curt's hands, finding that he was hiding scuffed up palms underneath the kitten. Owen bit his lip and decided not to say anything about it yet, gazing back at Curt. "He could have rabies, you know." 

 

But Curt was staring right at the kitten, not at Owen, transfixed as it fussed and meowed in Owen's hands. "... His name's Agent." 

 

Catatonic. It broke his heart to see his Curt in such a state. Gently he set the kitten down so he can wrap his arms around Curt fully, burying his face in the crook of his neck as a hand reached up to gently pet his head. There were no words exchanged between them, no apologies that can accurately describe how sorry he felt, and no embrace that can transmit how much he wanted Curt to feel better. Owen pulled away just slightly to press a kiss on his temple, closing his eyes as he did, reasoning to himself that _this_ kiss, in particular, was not for the cover, not for anything else but him and Curt, not Nick and Nate. 

 

"I'll draw you a bath." Owen murmured against his skin before pulling away, taking both of Curt's hands and gently pulling him up. He kept an arm wrapped around Curt's middle as he guided him, resisting the urge to shiver at how cold he was. It took time for them to walk down the hallway, up the stairs of their townhouse, and into their bedroom. The memory of the last time Curt was here came back to him as he gently set him on the edge of the bed. He knelt down to help him out of his shoes.

 

"Will Agent be okay?" Owen looked up to see that Curt was staring at him. He blinked slowly as if trying to absorb the duration of time, face drawn to a blank. "Owen, will Agent be okay?"

 

Owen simply offered him a smile. "Of course he will be, Curt."

 

He finally stood to ready the bath. Drawing it was easy. Owen sat on the edge of the bathtub as he poured a bottle of bubbly soap into it — camellia scented, he's been using it since he stepped foot in the States — watching the shimmery pink liquid disappear into the water to become bubbles on its surface. He lit a few tea candles for good measure (he liked having a fun time during his baths, sue him) and strategically set them around the bath before considering it a job well done. He stepped out of the bathroom just to help Curt into it, awkwardly telling him to strip out of his clothes and step in. He left just as Curt was shrugging off his hoodie, reasoning to himself that he had to grab something downstairs. 

 

Owen ventured down to catch the kitten (Agent, he remembered) where he left it, trotting about the hallway and meowing loudly for anyone to hear it. He scooped it up in one hand and looked around for a place to put it down for the night, listening to its soft mewls and purrs as it fussed and squirmed a little. It was really a cute little guy, and it didn't seem to be too bothered by Owen holding it. He paused for a moment to coo over it, wiggling a finger for it to reach and clap at between its paws. Agent reminded him of his own cat back in London. God, he missed her. 

 

At least Agent was appreciative of his effort. Owen eventually found one of their moving boxes, an old blanket, a throw pillow, and a bowl of water should Agent need it. He allowed the kitten to get on his shoulder and rest there as he got to work making its temporary home, resolving to take Agent to the vet tomorrow to buy supplies and get it its shots. He finally plucked it off of his shoulder and set it down, stepping back to inspect his handiwork before going into the kitchen in search of their first aid kit. 

 

It was under the sink. Owen opened the box and picked through it in search of what he needed, irked when his mind brought him to that sterile hospital in Manchester and the hecticness of it on that day. Nothing could compare to that day's sheer stress and pain, but now he was starting to think that this was more stressful than that. He hurt his Curt, goddamn it, and amends had to be made to make things right. He rummaged through syringes and gauze pads in search of the disinfectant, holding bottles up as he found them to read. He froze when he felt a familiar tube, taking it out and holding it up against the light. It was one of Curt's tranquilizers. 

 

Jesus, where did he put all of them?

 

He shook his head to get rid of the thought and returned it to where he found it. Owen took out the scissors, cotton balls, disinfectant, gauze pad, and tape and bundled it up in his arms. As he stepped into the entryway, he couldn't help but notice the damp spot on their carpet. Ah well. That'll dry.

 

It was unsurprising to find that Curt was merely sitting in the bath when he got to him, mostly motionless as he stared ahead at the wall. He only acknowledged Owen by turning to him, expression unreadable as he took into stock the first aid materials in his arms. There was a time when those eyes would brighten when Curt saw him, but now the looked glassy and unfocused as Owen knelt before him and looked at him steadily. The bubbles (thankfully) obscured anything from the waist down, fully exposing Curt's torso. Owen picked up the rag on the edge and dipped it into the bath, bringing it up as he took Curt's wrist and held his arm up.

 

Washing him was a test of trying not to look at the scars for too long. They practically littered across Curt's skin, a texture map of missions laid out for anyone to observe, most of which Owen was knowledgeable of and some he wasn't. He knew that Curt was well aware of him looking at the scars, knew that he had unanswered questions about them. Owen didn't ask, not yet. He wasn't ready. Neither of them were ready. He chose instead to watch as the rag glided across Curt's skin, the dripping water the only noise in the room. 

 

Finally, he found it in him to speak. "I can't even begin to be sorry, Curt."

 

That seemed to shake him out of his reverie. Curt turned to him slowly, blinking owlishly as he tried to register the words. He just looked so _tired,_ so spaced out, and it hurt him to see him like this. Owen paused from his ministrations and watched as the gears in Curt's head turned, figuring out what to say, before he did speak. His voice was too raw and too quiet.  "Don't be sorry."

 

Of course he took it to heart. Of course he felt like it was his fault. Owen clenched the rag tighter to still himself, to resist the urge to scream and get it across that what he did wasn't okay, wasn't right. His stomach was in knots as he tried to confront his guilt, something dark and heavy settling at the pit of it. It curled and made its presence known with every thought he had, every word he spoke. It irked him.

 

"Love, what I said was absolute bollocks and you know that," Owen gently set the rag down and began to lean in to press a kiss on Curt's forehead, before catching himself and pulling back. _It’s not real, Carvour, and your cover doesn’t work as an excuse right now; pull yourself together_. Owen instead gently brought up a hand to stroke his Curt’s face. Curt didn't shiver away from his touch, nor did he react negatively whatsoever. Slowly, his eyes raised to look at Owen. He wasn't prepared for the pain he'd find himself staring at. "I shouldn't have treated you that way."

 

Curt's lips tugged downwards and he frowned. "But I deserved it. All that—” Curt hesitated. “All that paramilitaries do is hurt people.” At that Curt cast his eyes downward, ashamed.

 

"Curt, in what world would that be the truth?"

 

"This one." 

 

Owen turned away, staring at the scars that littered Curt's body. A lot of the new ones were angry slashes across his skin, with an ugly cluster of them appearing on his chest. Owen always wanted to know what happened and who hurt him, but he could never find the strength to ask him. So, he slowly reached over and hesitantly placed his fingers on them, tracing them gently as they cut through the planes of Curt's skin. The way Curt leaned into his touch made his heart break. 

 

"That will never be the truth." Owen murmured, looking back up to Curt, who was watching him. He sucked in a deep breath, "Curt, I'm sorry." 

 

And he was, he was deeply, truly, and bone-chillingly sorry. Regret froze his heart farther than the depths of hell could ever reach; it chained up his mind in restraints that even Hephaestus could not devise a solution to. He could not express this, yet it was what he felt. He was _sorry_. And it killed him that Curt, the self-sacrificing idiot, could never understand the extent of it.

 

Or did he? Owen watched as the man merely hummed, eyes glazed over, and said nothing more. 

 

* * *

 

Curt registered things as sensations because that was the only way he could process anything at this point. He was cold. The hardwood floor was harsh to his knees. The towel was fluffy. Owen was warm, gentle. The water was warm. It smelled like camellias. His chest felt numb and Curt wasn’t sure if he was actually breathing. He could hardly hear anything, like he was submerged underwater or deafened by cotton buds. 

 

Everything played out slowly, a snail’s pace for him to bear witness to. That was always what happened after rough days, anyway. He was the audience of his own life story, the watcher, and he couldn’t even follow what the current narrative was about. He could only watch dumbly as his arms were stretched out, a cloth running through them, gentle fingers traversing skin. Curt wasn’t even completely sure _why_ he was in the bath right now or why he was so cold when he walked into the townhouse earlier, but that didn’t exactly matter at the moment. 

 

Owen was such a fussy husband. As soon as the bath was over, he handed him a change of clothes (some old sweatpants and a tattered shirt) and stepped out of the bathroom, promising to be back for him as soon as he was ready. Curt went through the whole process of getting ready for bed: toweling himself dry, combing his hair a little, and brushing his teeth. 

 

He still needed to sleep on the couch. Well, it was really a self-imposed order, but it was a necessary one nonetheless. Curt honestly didn’t want to sleep on the couch because it made all of his sore muscles make an appearance in the morning, but alas, his fear of hurting Owen overridden everything else. He’d rather suffer in silence rather than wake up full knowing he’s hurt Owen ins some shape or form. It was his cross to bear, his punishment for being such a fucked up human being. 

 

He didn’t let himself linger in their bedroom for too long. Curt padded down the stairs and stepped into the living room, where there was a large box for Agent to rest in. He knelt down and petted the kitten as it preened in his touch, scratching underneath its ear and watching its big grey eyes slide shut. Agent was a loud purrer, making his appreciation well-known to Curt, and he couldn’t help the small smile on his face as he continued cooing over the kitten.

 

He stopped in his tracks when he finally straightened to get to the couch. The floor was cleared of the couch, which was pushed back a little to give way to the clusters of comforters thrown on it. Two thick blankets were hung up in a tent-like formation over the comforters, and if he tilted his head a little he can see a mound of pillows underneath.

 

Standing nervously in front of him was Owen, who was holding a large pillow in his hands. Curt tried to remember what their bed upstairs looked like when he looked at it. He could have sworn it was missing some pillows. 

 

“As a kid I erm,” Owen immediately rushed into an explanation, wrapping his arms around the pillow and squeezing it as he spoke. “When my sister, Odette, was really upset, we’d make a blanket fort in her bedroom and sleep there. We’d talk about whatever was bothering her and well… we just spent time together, you know?

 

“We did this a lot after… after the explosion. After what happened to Mum."

 

Curt inhaled sharply. Owen looked away and seemingly tried to fix a minor thing on the fort. He was wearing his long pajamas again, and this time pulled on a shirt. He can vaguely recall Owen mentioning he'd rather not wear a shirt to bed, and he can't recall an instance why he'd change that out of nowhere. The way his muscles flexed against the fabric as he bent and moved was a sight to behold, a moment of realness Curt can hold on to.

 

When their eyes were back on each other, they started at the same time.

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” 

 

“You don’t have to sleep with me, you know.” Curt blinked, realizing that _that_ was Owen’s intention with building the blanket fort. His mind was flooded with what happened in the Middle East, his meetings with Cynthia, and the time he spent in CIA safe houses. He bristled at the thought of telling everything to Owen. “And you don’t have to listen to what I have to say. You’re no shrink.” 

 

“You’re right, I’m not,” Owen nodded, understanding. “But I’m your partner and your friend, Curt.”

 

He was hesitant. Curt wasn't so sure if he can trust himself to sleep with Owen without hurting him in any way. Despite that, he _wanted_ to feel the other man's warmth against his. Waking up to that was a delight, a comforting moment, and what he'd kill to have the gall to ask Owen to do that again. In the end, Curt clenched his teeth and threw caution out of the window, overridden by the need for touch and affection from Owen for just a moment.

 

Even if it was just for show, to play the act as a husband. 

 

They ducked into the fort together and shifted around to get into a good position. With the couch and blankets overhead, it looked a little darker, blocking out the city lights that streamed from the window. The rain pattered down strongly, a white noise filling their living room. Curt shifted awkwardly until he was across Owen, his head rather close to Owen's shoulder. Owen gently nudged him and he pulled his head up to Owen's torso.

 

Curt murmured against Owen's chest, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. "You’re very warm.” 

 

“I’d argue otherwise,” The way Owen's chuckle rumbled through his chest made Curt's heart skip a beat. A hand has found his way to his hair and it was curling fingers into it gently, loving. He leaned into the touch. “Sleep tight, Curt.” 

 

It didn't take long for Owen's breathing to even out. Curt listened as his heartbeat became steadier, for his breathing to slow down and his fingers to still from petting his hair. Curt tilted his head up slowly to take in the image of Owen's sleeping face (he's forgotten what it looked like, oh my), watching the way his face twitched minutely to whatever he was dreaming about. It was… a beautifully candid sight, at the very least. A moment of placid domesticity. A sight of home.

 

He took a deep breath, and settled himself deeper into the soft cushioning of the blankets and Owen’s chest. 

 

Dusk settles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> It's a rainy day in New York. Owen fell asleep in his suit on the chair. Due to the fact that Curt's scars are aching due to the cold, he asks Owen to cuddle with him on the couch. Domesticity ensues.
> 
> They go out for brunch in a cafe called the Grindstone. It's best known as a hotspot for diplomats and envoys as well as visiting spies. It rains midway and Owen offers his jacket to cover them from the rain seeing as neither had an umbrella. When in the Grindstone, they had brunch and later argued about the who should pay the bill. Curt wins.
> 
> A BBC news reportage on IRA riots triggers Owen's past trauma involving the 96 Manchester bombing that injured no one, hence its general irrelevance. When asked by Curt about it, he becomes snippish and even personally insults him by calling him an American attack dog. The stress of this sets Curt off and he excuses himself to go on a run around New York, despite the torrential rain.
> 
> During his run, Curt encounters an orange kitten who he names Agent and brings him home. A worried Owen quickly attends to Curt's needs by wrapping him in a towel and draws him a bath. During then, he apologizes for his behavior. Curt doesn't indicate if he is forgiven or not. 
> 
> They end up sleeping together in a blanket fort in the living room as Owen insists on making this right. 
> 
> Lore and Notes: 
> 
> \- It's a nightmare chapter of 11,769 words. I don't know how we wrote it. I honestly don't.  
> \- The song is "Neptune" from Sleeping at Last. SAL is perhaps one of my fave artists out there, and obviously the Atlas: Space 1 and 2 are my top loves. Please listen to them, they're so good.  
> \- A few more references of MKO (will we ever explain what it is?? no) have been made in this chapter, hope you people in the quarantine server appreciate it.  
> \- Owen and his pina colada tendencies are a result of a conversation within the SAF Discord. Will it ever be further explored? No idea.  
> \- The Grindstone is a reference to one of my semi-original works, and the mentioned UN Taskforce is a reference to the said semi-orig verse.  
> \- The mentioned bombing is the 1996 Manchester bombing that is typically blamed on the IRA. Owen's resentment stemmed from the fact that his pregnant mother (y'all wouldn't believe we found an injury manuscript from that day and actually found notes on a pregnant lady being confined) was injured and she almost miscarried. Fortunately she didn't and now he has his baby brother, Oliver.  
> \- Owen referring Curt to an attack dog is a reference to Anastasia's (stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)) fic "All's Fair (Coup de Grâce)". I really can't shut up about that fic because it is the good shit so please read it if you can!!  
> \- Some experimental writing was used to make a scene in this chapter that we've dubbed in the team as "the running scene", so please tell us what you think of it!!  
> \- "I swear to shitting god I will shove your foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting shitty fake leather for weeks" is a Cynthia line given by Casey!! She is currently writing on an Inception AU fic entitled "flash flood (under my bed)", so please read it!!  
> \- "Dusk settles" is a parallel/response to "Dawn breaks". Y'all will eventually figure out how we use it soon. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your love and support!! Please leave your kudos and comments, they are appreciated so much.


	8. neurotic fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Descriptions of violence, mild panic attack, drug use, mentions of blood, and mentions of abuse. Please tread carefully. This is a dark one. If you see a cut that goes "Coming home to an empty house was always such a bummer." politely scroll past it until you get to the next cut off. Take care of yourself, we love you!!
> 
> Aaand we are back and at it, folks! Thank you for your patience, but we're back to wreck havoc! 
> 
> We dedicate this chapter to Anastasia, known in AO3 as stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)! Thank you for saying our rights 
> 
> A big fat thank you to Cailin, Lilly, and Percy for weathering through this monster with me. Shit's about to go down. Please don't stop holding my hand.

According to Eli, Tuesdays were always slow for the bakery. He rattled off with all sorts of reasons for why that was so: not many people wanted pastries for lunch, too busy with their schedules, or it just wasn’t a good time for them. The only eventful thing that would happen was the bread delivery later at 11, which would be done by Xander and Curt. He frankly didn't mind the slow day; honestly, it was a relief to have little to no people to interact with. It meant he had time to observe the people he's supposed to be working with. He could relax, slack off maybe, and overall bide his blessed time while there was no one to watch him.

 

Unsurprisingly, he got a cold during that gap between leaving the townhouse and coming back with Agent. He still couldn't remember much of what happened during that time, but going by the way he woke up with Owen on the floor with him and a blanket fort overhead, he can only assume it wasn't so good. Curt was feverish and covered with sweat when he woke up, and he squirmed to get the covers off of him. Owen chastised him gently that day while running a wet rag over his heated skin. His touch was so gentle and loving that Curt was sure he called him Mom a bunch of times.

 

The kitten, by the way, was such a darling. Curt still had no clue why he picked it up, or where he found it, but he was really glad he did. Agent (apparently what he named the kitten) was a constant company while Curt was stuck on the couch, Owen flitting about upstairs or in their kitchen. He purred up quite a storm whenever he was scratched behind his ear, thumping his tail gently on the soft cushioning as he closed his eyes. He liked flopping on his side, belly white and still a little pink and exposed, and if Curt dared to put his hand lower he'd be caught in a trap of tiny claws and teeth.

 

Agent was currently nestled in a little box in the snack room, probably playing with a knotted piece of fabric made from one of their old rags. Curt didn't have the heart to leave it be in the big, lonely townhouse. It was fine with Eli anyway, so long as it didn't wander in the kitchen. Xander and Pim have been cooing over Agent ever since, asking Curt questions about where he found it.

 

He had no clue how to answer them.

 

Curt was currently on cashier duty, drumming his fingers against the counter dully. It was raining again outside, though not as hard as it did last Saturday, and every now and then he'd see someone running through it with whatever's at hand to shield them. Owen insisted he skip out of work because of the weather forecast, but Curt insisted to go anyway. It was delivery day. He had to come in to do his job, both real and for the cover. 

 

And he was a little sulky about that, the Brit. Had the audacity to pull the doting husband card on him. Owen went on about how he needed his rest, that the mission can wait (a little), and that he should just get better really quickly if he really wanted to work. Even Curt was tempted to stay home for the rest of the week, act like the cold was worse than it seems, and play house with Owen all day if it meant just being with him. However, he had to do the job. It was necessary. He can't just leave Owen to do all of it. 

 

Curt twiddled with the thermos Owen gave him before he left the house. That was their compromise: he can go to work so long as he drank Owen's tea. 

 

The bell on the door tinkled as a new customer emerged. Curt dusted off his smock and got to work checking if the coffee machine was ready for use. There were three white boxes of pastries on the counter next to the sink, all of them due for pickup by whoever ordered them. He checked them once more to see what each contained. There was a cake, some scones, and some pretzels.

 

"Hey man, I'm here to pick up a box of pastries for my wife?" Every muscle in Curt's body stilled. His breath was knocked out of his chest. There was a chill that ran down his spine as his body lurched towards activity, heart immediately thundering loudly against his chest and pushing again his skin. Curt turned slowly to find himself face to face with Sergio Santos, cheerful grin wide on his lips as he smoothened his hair back. "You must be the new guy she talks about. It's Nick, right? That's cool, I'm Sergio, what's up, man?"

 

The barrage of rapidfire words overwhelmed Curt, and for a moment all he could do was blink back surprise. He was so sure they were supposed to bring it to Maria during the bread run, so he was shocked to find himself face to face with her husband. Sergio seemed to be just as tall as Owen, with a trimming of facial hair, and Curt bit back a comment as he recalled his first conversation with Maria. Owen was still the prettier one. 

 

He sniffled and flattened his hands on his smock once more. They were suddenly sweaty. “Um, yeah, Sergio Santos, right? I’m guessing you’re here for the cream puffs?” 

 

Sergio practically beamed. “That’s right!” 

 

“Right, I think Pim is still letting them cool, I’ll let him know.” Curt practically disappeared after that, going past the counter with the boxes and white ribbons and stepping into the kitchen. It was practically sweltering in there, and a wave of heat made Curt wipe back sweat from his brow. He fanned himself with his hand (unsuccessfully cooling himself down) and made his way to the table where Pim and Xander were at. He could see the cream puffs set to the side. 

 

“Hey Mr. Carter, sir! Looking for something?” Pim brightened up upon seeing him, straightening his back after being bent over a piece of bread for who knows how long. Next to him, Xander was picking up pieces of bread, stretching them, and then twisting them into pretzels in a practiced ease. It was near entrancing to watch, and Curt had to force himself to look away to look at Pim, who was still waiting for his answer. 

 

“Mr. Santos is out waiting for the cream puffs.” There was a flurry of activity after that. Pim rushed off to pull out one of the boxes to stack the cream puffs in them, quickly folding the slots into place to make it. Xander calmly set the pretzels down to the side, patted his hands on his smock, then reached a hand up to tighten his ponytail. He got to work with putting the ribbon around the box as Pim disappeared through the doors and greeted Sergio enthusiastically.

 

Curt stepped out of the way as Xander carried the box out to the kitchen, ribbon between his fingers as he made conversation with Sergio. He walked across the kitchen, past the large ovens and the racks of bread that were cooling, and into the snack room where Eli was sitting on the couch. He was typing something on his laptop with reading glasses perched on his nose, frown set as he tapped around on the little mouse box on its surface.  

 

Eli looked up at him as he entered, and frowned. “What’s gotten into you, boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

 

“Did you plan on telling me that Santos was gonna come in?” Curt ticked. Was he annoyed about the situation, frustrated that he was caught off guard out of nowhere? Frankly speaking, Curt’s undercover skills are a little rusty, hell, he’s not quite fully sunken into this Nick Carter persona just yet. He’s mostly playing by ear and scrambling to make sure every box on his cover file’s been ticked down by his acting. Curt just hoped he was acting fine enough for anyone to not give him a second glance. 

 

“And why would that matter?” Eli raised his eyebrow, tone thick with an unspoken warning despite the clear fact that his body language was casual. It didn't really matter, honestly, since he's supposed to be playing a role here, but _damn_ a little bit of a heads up would have been nice. The man's cheery disposition was not doing Curt's cold any well. “You’re not Curt Mega now, you're—” 

 

“Mr. Carter, sir?” They both turned to see Pim peeking from the doorway, a lollipop between his lips. For a brief second Curt feared the kid heard what he and Eli were talking about, and wondered what the protocol would be for that. He flicked his eyes to Eli, who still looked so calm and casual despite the implied circumstances.  He acted like these almost slip-ups were absolutely normal, face not even twitching with any give away emotion. Damn. The guy can act. Instead of saying anything Pim popped the lollipop out of his mouth and grinned, teeth tinted pink. “There’s a lady looking for you.” 

 

He and Eli shared a look, “What lady?”  
  
“Uh... dark skinned, wearing a headscarf. She said she used to work with you in Iraq?” The thoughts clicked. He untied his smock and nodded at Eli, who merely nodded back and returned to his laptop work. Curt thanked Pim and made his way to the cafe area of the bakery, smock in hand as he looked around for her. There weren't many customers at this hour, and it was easy to spot her in the far corner of the room, back turned to him. 

 

He approached. From behind she was a picture in lavender, wearing the color in her pantsuit and her headscarf, wrapped tightly on the nape of her neck as if it were hair wrapped in a chignon. Curt could smell from here a slice of carrot cake and a warm cappuccino, and by the clinking of silverware he can tell that she was halfway through it. He checked her appearance again. There had to be something quirky about her outfit. It was practically a staple in her fashion.

 

Ah, there it is. Her socks had a pattern of green aliens on them. She looked up at him in greeting, "Mega." 

 

Curt couldn't help but grin, "Simmons."

 

He sat down on the seat across her. Simmons set her fork down and had her full attention on him, a small smile on her face as she waited for what he had to say. She looked a little brighter under the lighting, he’d dare to call her a bit _healthier_ , like she’s fully replenished whatever soul she’s lost in that span of time between her deployment and return to the stateside. It was good that she looked a little more alive. It was good to see her so happy. 

 

Curt wondered what he looked like to her, if he looked like a happy husband or a weary officer. The thought irked him and he tried to smile. “So, how was Philadelphia?” 

 

“A lot has changed since I left,” Simmons said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her thighs as she tilted her head, “Turns out Mama and Papa managed to move to a safer neighborhood. The house looks… better than the one I grew up in. Darrell’s working as a mechanic in the nearby auto shop; he’s pretty nifty with his hands. Ramona’s got a dance scholarship to the state college, she’ll be starting in September. Pretty cool, right?”   

 

“Yeah, that’s cool.” Curt nodded along as he mimicked her body language, leaning forward as well and clasping his hands between his legs. It was just a familiar habit to do that, to replicate the posture of the person across him. There was some explanation to that from his CIA instructor years ago but he can’t be bothered to remember what that is at the moment. “So what brought you here? You’re pretty far from Langley, if you ask me.” 

 

She shrugged, reaching across the table to grab her cup of coffee and sip it. “Might’ve been stationed here for the time being.” 

 

“No shit? You’re under the New York office now?” Curt didn’t even try to hide his surprise. He leaned back and looked at her incredulously, watching her casual movements as if she was trying to play it innocent. The smile on her face was coy, and in the words of Pim and Xander, “knife cat”-like. “I’m starting to think you miss me, Simmons.” 

 

“I’m here to make sure you don’t die, Mega, because you and I both know I wouldn’t let you.” Simmons laughed and tilted her head back. Curt flicked his eyes to the rest of the cafe quickly to see Pim stationed at the counter, curiously listening in on what was going on with him and his visitor. As soon as he noticed Curt’s look he went back to attending to the cashier, wiping out invisible grime from the counter with a cloth. Satisfied, Curt turned back to watch Simmons calm down from her giggling. Her eyes glinted with mischief, “So, how are you and your husband?” 

 

“We’re good.” Curt paused at the thought, twiddling with his thumbs as the question fully sunk in. Flashes of memory bubbled up to the surface: waking up in that blanket fort, Owen’s warm hand on his wrist, the smile he gave him whenever they were eating dinner across each other. Curt wasn’t sure if he should say anything about what’s been worrying him. He licked his lips and decided to say it anyway. “Simmons, there’s something I gotta say about him.” 

 

In an instant her smile faded away, face placid as she straightened and leaned back in her seat. Simmons appeared visibly worried, maybe a tinge furious of whatever she picked up from his confession, and maybe he was a little afraid of how she’ll react if he said his thought. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was trained in the same techniques and methods as he was, capable of things just as bad (maybe worse) as what he can do. Her expression was schooled as she took a deep breath, settling on the cushion, “I’m listening.” 

 

Curt ignored the twinge of his own chest, the twisting of something in his belly as he considered what he had to say to Simmons. Owen was brilliant, a mighty lion in a field of gazelles and sheep. Despite that he’s also so docile and loving, caring and attentive. He can’t trust himself to be around someone so beautiful. “I’m scared of hurting him.” 

 

“What do you—” Watching as realization dawned on her face was… a painful revelation. Curt hated that she knew very well what he meant, that she would immediately understand what was bothering him. Sympathy crossed Simmons’ expression (or was it empathy?), and she slowly reached across the table. After a moment's hesitation, she finally settled on setting her hand on Curt’s clenched ones. Her eyes gazed up at him, a deep frown on her face, as she waited for further explanation.

 

"I've been sleeping on the couch." Curt tried to articulate himself, looking away and fidgeting with his non-occupied hand a little. Her gaze was too intense for him to look into, and he was afraid of what he’ll see if he stared there long enough. His fingers strayed to the edges of his smock, currently crumpled on his lap. Curt tried to find words to thread his thoughts, “I asked Barb for tranquilizers, and—”

 

“Curt,” He can’t remember the last time she actually called him by his first name. Her skin was so warm against his own, her lips curling around the single syllable of his name, and for a moment he was in their cramped safe house in Iraq and not a bakery in Manhattan. Simmons blinked up to him for a moment, doe eyes focused. “Time and time again I tell you: you need therapy.” 

 

Curt quickly retracted his hand, as if stung. Something tightened in his chest and he leaned back on the chair. “I can do that later.”  
  
“No, you have no excuse to delay it any further.” Simmons slowly straightened herself, arranging her limbs carefully in a way that had her sitting rigidly. Too rigidly. She reminded him of what she looked like when she was talking to a prisoner in a CIA blacksite. The memory left a sour taste in his mouth. There was an edge of pity in her brows as she set her coffee and cake aside. “Look, I can talk to Cynthia about it.” 

 

Curt tensed. He remembered the conference room he was placed in a few hours after landing in the United States, polygraph machine hooked up to him, the glass panels behind him spilling out soft sunlight over him. Cynthia stood behind the polygraph reader, her manicured hand on top of the chair’s backrest, gaze firm on him as the psychologist next to her asked her questions. Curt could only do nothing, then, but stare at the surface of the glass conference table, watching the reflections of himself and Cynthia as they shifted and moved.

 

The polygrapher called out multiple points when his heart rate increased. The psychologist practically said he failed the test. Cynthia sent him to New York anyway.  

 

“I can look into… just let me do this one job, alright?” Curt fumbled with the words as he stood, uncrumpling the smock that was on his lap. He slowly placed it on as Simmons tilted her head up at him, face unreadable as she watched him. He couldn’t look her in the eye, he just _can’t._ “I gotta go back to work, Simmons. Good to see you.” 

 

Curt’s mind was already reeling as he started making his way back to the cashier, already considering if he should go back and stay with Simmons a little longer. Regret and guilt twisted in his gut as he tightened the tie of his smock behind his back. He couldn’t help but look at his shoes as he made his way to the counter, mind reeling with thoughts of whether or not—

 

“Curt.” He paused and turned back to see Simmons, now standing and watching him. His name sounded like an unfamiliar texture on her tongue, like a puzzle piece being forced into a spot it’s not supposed to be in. It sounded awkward, like a new foreign language on a novince tongue, but also sounded like something that’s been coming for a long time. Her fingers were twisting around the edge of her headscarf again, and her face was an image of worry as she asked slowly. She said his name again with such tender care. “You know where to find me, right?” 

 

He simply stared at her and nodded tersely, before he turned around and disappeared back to work.

 

* * *

 

The boss acted weird sometimes. In the workplace he tended to be fidgety and a little twitchy, as if he wasn’t so fond of sitting in an office. Vincent couldn’t blame him, not really. The only time he’s ever seen Owen was when he was in the field, where he was at his prime element: calm and composed, a man dancing his waltz. 

 

But his antsiness couldn’t explain the other points of weird behavior. He’s been asking weird questions every now and then, most of the time with no given context. Just earlier during the morning meeting he was asking Carys about tranquilizers and how they worked. Carys didn’t really know much about tranquilizing, seeing as she was a computer science major and not a biochemist. It left the boss on edge as he curtly bid her goodbye and left to go to their joined office.

 

Vincent looked up from the multiple holograms he was looking through. At certain distances, Owen’s features couldn’t exactly be described, and so he slid his glasses on to better see him. The blur of lines on his face became concentration, the furrow between his eyebrows a mix of frustration and annoyance. 

 

It was strange to see him dressed in anything other than his long sleeved shirts and that old, tattered jacket. The boss looked much like a dapper pencil pusher from the British Consulate, with slicked back hair, a well-kept stubble, and a jumper over a neat blue button-up. At that moment Owen looked up from his laptop and asked, “Vincent, should I try taking Curt out to dinner?” 

 

The boss has been mentioning his partner a lot, too. Ever since they figured out the whole plan to get him to open up, Owen has been asking questions left and right to “finetune” it or change steps as they go along. It’s literally the only thing he’d talk about with Vincent during lunch break and work and anytime in between, as if it was the only thing that would make him run. Vincent didn’t mind the talk about him, in fact, it was good to hear about the relationship the two had, but the things Vincent knew about the man’s partner nagged him.     

 

Owen was still staring at him. His tongue clicked, “Well, dinner sounds good, sir. Do you have any place in mind?” 

 

“There’s a Greek place a few blocks out. Thinking of taking him there.” 

 

“Ah.” Vincent nodded and turned back to the mess of holograms before him. Every now and then while parsing through information he checked on his boss, who still looked at his screen as if he was reading something in a different language. He slowly made his way across the table, positioning himself right next to Owen. He eyed the browser innocently and saw that it had multiple tabs brought up for identifying trauma. Vincent flicked his eyes at Owen’s face and spoke slowly. “Boss, a word of advice, if you will.” 

 

“What is it, Vincent?” Inattentive. He only tilted his head to confirm that he was listening.  

Vincent bit his lip. He had heard of the stories of what men like Owen’s partner were capable of, what kind of missions they ran under the vague and murky grey areas of ethical work. During his time in headquarters, through parsing information that went through his desk, he remembered the appearances of multiple CIA operatives on the manila folders he opened. He remembered their blank stares and profiles, the details under their names, and the way his stomach twisted whenever he read what had happened to them.

 

Vincent tried to speak carefully, “If you have… feelings for the American operative—”

 

“Curt.” 

 

Vincent blinked back surprise with the bite of protectiveness that came with that tone. Owen’s gaze was intense, a telltale warning for him to try that again, and Vincent read him perfectly as he adjusted the way he sat on the cushion. Vincent straightened himself and tried to ignore the spike of terror that ran down his back as Owen narrowed his eyes at him. 

 

“Curt, yes.” Vincent nodded along slowly, quickly trying to assess the situation and defuse it. “Just be certain you feel for him for… who he is, and not what you think of him as.”

 

There was silence. Owen merely looked at him, blinking a few times as he absorbed what he said. Vincent meant it, anyway. This is the first time he’s heard Owen speak about his partner in close proximity, and the way his eyes held that sparkle of interest and affection disconcerted him. He didn’t want his boss to get hurt, hell, he was _afraid_ for him, goddamnit. He wouldn’t trust Curt with a man like Owen. 

  
Owen spoke the words slowly. “He’s not a charity case, Vincent.” 

 

Realizing what he meant, Vincent bit back laughter at his sorry self and his boss. Oh, God, he really was dense, _God save the queen._ He had something to tell Carys about later on the way back to their flat. 

 

He nodded slowly once more, and turned away. “I know.” 

 

Vincent didn’t mean to call Curt a charity case, but if that was what Owen got from what he said, then that will have to do. 

 

* * *

 

 **_Pim Meadowbrook_ ** **_  
_ ** _hey mr carter sir_

_um idk where u at yet but someones looking for u_

 

**_You_ **

_We’re still in Harlem, what’s up?_

 

**_Pim Meadowbrook_ **

_well look_

_there was this guy?? said he knew u_

_kinda tol, thicc, looks like he works out?_ _  
_ _u know what i mean_

 

**_You_ **

_Pim, that is a very general description._

 

 **_Pim Meadowbrook_ ** **_  
_ ** _im trying here mr carter sir :((_

_he was wearing a band shirt????_

_had this neato tattoo on his arm too_

 

**_You_ **

_What did it look like?_

 

 **_Pim Meadowbrook_ ** **_  
_ ** _some kinda funky monster_

 _a mashup of creatures????_ _  
_ _idk i think its a fursona_

_i asked mr eli and now hes glaring at me_

 

**_You_ **

_Thanks for letting me know, Pim. En route back to the bakery._

 

 **_Pim Meadowbrook_ ** **_  
_ ** _was he an ex or smth??_

_like,,, was he abusive or smth,,,_

_i dont mean to pry srry_

_but if so i wouldve thrown hands_

 

**_You_ **

_You don’t have to, kiddo. I wouldn’t recommend it._

 

 **_Pim Meadowbrook_ ** **_  
_ ** _but i wouldve anyway!!_

 

* * *

 

Coming home to an empty house was always such a bummer. For the past four years, he’s been used to being the one pulling the late hours, or otherwise coming back to whatever was “home” with Simmons. He didn't like the silence that came with static rooms and hallways, didn't like the still air that remained in them. It left him hyper aware of anything and everything, from the ticking of the clock to the quiet creaks of the wood flooring under his feet. It made his thoughts loud and blaring, near invasive in the silence.

 

At least Agent was some sort of break from that. The orange kitten had been camping out in his hoodie pocket throughout the walk from the bakery to 50th Avenue, purring up a storm whenever Curt's fingers scratched his ear just right. It probably shed all over his hoodie by now, and that will probably be hell to clean, but it was well worth it if it meant he had a constant warmth by him. Curt gently deposited the kitty in its little box by the living room opening, watching Agent settle for a moment before plopping down and playing with one of his toys. 

 

Curt made his way to the kitchen. He had finished the tea in the thermos and Owen said that he had to drink some again once he got home. The kettle was already on the stove, and it was only a matter of filling it up with water again to make more tea. He was already halfway through the required amount of water when his wristwatch buzzed frantically against his wrist. He read the new notification:

 

_Unknown heat signature detected at the third floor attic._

 

His breathing stilled. Curt’s mind rushed to process that information, feet guiding him to the opening of their kitchen to stand in the hallway and listen for the noise of footsteps. However quiet they were, Curt heard the faint, near imperceptible creaking of the floorboards as someone stepped closer and closer to whatever it is they're going towards. His stomach flipped over itself and he disappeared back into the kitchen, mind running the math for how much time he has left.

 

45 seconds. He wasted 3 just standing there stupidly. 

 

 _45… 44… 43…_ Curt filled up the kettle and set it down on the stove, cranking the valve up high and watching as the flames wrapped itself around the kettle's bottom. He looked around and took stock of the gun under the dining table, the knife and flashbang under the kitchen counter, and the extra magazine clip behind the spices. _42… 41..._

 

40 seconds. His heart was practically hammering against his chest, and he felt the way his hair stood on end from anticipation. He crossed to the living room and straight to the bookshelves, trying to recall which book had the guns he needed. Curt's mind was cluttered, teetering towards overwhelming itself, so he reached to his watch and called the only other person on its line. 

 

Breathless from the adrenaline, he spoke in the quietest voice possible. _39… 38..._ “How are we doing over there, Nate?” 

 

“Nick! I was just about to call you,” It was startling to hear Owen loud and clear, tone chirpy and excited. Curt's heart twinged as he realized how much of a good day he must be having. It would be such a bummer for Curt to ruin it. _37._ “Great news from my boss. I can’t wait to tell you over dinner. Do you want to eat out tonight?” 

 

“That sounds nice, yeah,” _30… 29…_ His non-watch hand scrambled over the tops of the books, parsing the titles before setting them back down to look for another. Curt knew that there was a specific book he needed, he just can't remember because his damned partner didn't inform him which hollowed book he placed it in. Ah well. He can't ask now. That'll be suspicious. “Listen, come home as soon as you can, alright? I can’t have you getting a cold too.”

 

“Of course I will,” _26… 25…. 24… 23…_ Curt found the guns under War and Peace and Crime and Punishment. He bit back a scoff at his partner's choice as he opened the books to reveal two handguns of Russian make. He should have searched using his husband's humor. He placed one in his waistband and clicked the safety off of the other. That seemed to shock him out of his silence. “Nick, is something wrong?”  

 

20 seconds _._ He curtly ended the call. He grabbed a cushion from the couch and strode over to where Agent was, watching as he tilted his head up to look at Curt as he approached. Curt gently placed the cushion to cover half of the box, watching as the kitten disappeared under the pillow. _17… 16…_ Good. Kitten was determined safe.

 

15 seconds. Curt returned to the kitchen and listened for the quiet whistling of the kettle, flicking the valve off as soon as he heard its high whining. By now his hands have stilled, mind cleared by whatever clutter it’d have. There were 8 seconds left on the mental clock as he checked for the locations of the weapons he’d need, and he tried to map out how he wanted to direct the intruder through his place. 

 

Curt looked at his watch to see if he was right, then decided to click the panic button on the side for extra measure. _3… 2… 1..._

 

“Mr. Mega!” A light, indistinguishable accent carried from the top of the staircase and into the kitchen. Curt slowly grabbed for the flash bang that was stashed under the kitchen counter, slowly making his way to the opening of the kitchen. A quick look revealed the feet of his opponent, and by the voice he can tell that they were a male. “It’s an honor to meet you, after all these years. I’ve heard lots about the likes of you.”

 

“I’m sure they’re nothing but praises.” Curt called out, quickly flicking his other arm out and firing a shot at the feet. His opponent padded down the stairs too quickly for the bullet to hit anything but the wall across it. The wood cracked and splintered as the man laughed, a deep and rolling thing that brought a chill down Curt’s spine. He gripped the flash bang tighter and considered when to best use it. 

 

“Praises? For you demonic lot?” The intruder laughed again, now closer and louder, and Curt knew that they were just a few feet away. While he knew the most practical option was to shoot them already and get this all over with, he wanted to know who sent for him. He wanted to know who he was up against before he placed a bullet through their skull. It was, well, the best option he had at the moment to stay one step ahead. 

 

At least, that’s what Owen would say.

 

Curt quickly turned around the corner and straightened his firing arm, easily aiming for the intruder’s gun and shooting it out of the way. In surprise, the man fired as well just as the gun left his hand, and the bullet narrowly brushed Curt’s shoulder before hitting the wall far behind him. He ignored the way his heart stuttered and gritted his teeth, “You’d be surprised. Even demons get praised for doing their work well.”  

 

Despite the initial shock, the intruder grinned crookedly, “Let’s see how good your work is, then.” 

 

The intruder charged forward. Curt quickstepped backwards and set the flash bang down on one of the accent tables, securing the gun in his waistband before reaching a hand out to block the punch coming at his face. He flicked it away and swung a roundhouse kick at the assailant, knocking him on the ribs and watching as he slammed against the wall and straightened himself up. Curt held up his fists to his face and waited, stepping back to put some distance.

 

His heart rattled in his chest as the intruder surged forward and tried to land a sweeping punch. Curt ducked and went for an upper cut, connecting with the man's chin and sending him toppling to the ground. Curt’s wristwatch chirruped with the warning of his heart rate going past its usual limit. He ignored it as he watched the intruder pull out a knife from the inside of his pants leg. Curt responded by pulling out a baton from the bottom of the accent table.

 

The intruder laughed as Curt snapped the baton back to extend it. It was lightweight, cool against his heated hands. He wondered if his hands were trembling. He didn’t dare to look down to see, in fear of having the intruder out of his sight. "Didn't they teach you not to bring a baton to a knife fight?"

 

Curt flashed a grin and raised the baton up, "They teach a lot of things, but no, they never mentioned that." 

 

When Curt swiped his baton to connect it to the intruder’s temple, the intruder reached forward to try and cut his throat. They both veered away from the other as Curt slammed harshly against the wall. Curt used the baton to jab the intruder’s abdomen, watching as he grabbed for its end. He used his free hand to smack the side of the intruder’s head, the latter stumbling away as he tried to reorient himself. He thumbed around the surface of the baton and ran a dial up, watching as the end crackled to life.

 

“Who sent you here?” Curt pointed it at the intruder, who merely stepped away to watch the crackling end of the baton. He had multiple theories running through his mind, though at the top of that list was obviously Chimera. The mental clock ticked away, counting down to when Owen would come home. _3:24. 3:23. 3:22._

 

The intruder grinned and laughed, responding by pointing his knife at Curt’s chest. “We both know who sent me here, don’t you?” 

 

He stepped forward to push the knife into his chest. Curt blocked by holding his baton in both hands, foot stepping forward as the surface connected with the intruder’s wrist. He pushed the arm back with the baton and flicked it forward, sending the knife flying away and clattering onto the floor. Then, he swept it to the side and crushed it against the intruder’s neck, making him stagger into the kitchen and flat against the dining table.

 

Walking forward, Curt couldn’t hold back the grin on his face as his mind ran through the numbers and the time. Maybe he can clean this up neatly. Maybe he can do this one right. “Finally gonna take it lying down?”   

 

He wasn’t even replied to. The intruder slammed both of his feet against Curt’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of his chest and forcing him to stagger back into the living room. His mind whirled as he tried to reorient himself, hand blindly grabbing for the gun in his waistband as he realized that his baton is not in his hand. When his eyes focused themselves, his intruder was holding the knife again.

 

“You really shouldn’t bring a gun to a knife fight, it’s rude.” Curt narrowly avoided a jab to his shoulder with the blade, sidestepping and pushing the intruder to the side of the doorway. He kept him pinned there until the knife clattered to the floor once more, pushing him one more time before letting go. He stepped back and pointed his gun at the intruder, watching as he feebly got himself in a seated position.

 

“I’ll ask again. Who sent you?” Curt asked, perhaps yelled. 

 

He didn’t seem to notice that something was clipped to his shirt. The intruder merely pulled out a remote from his pocket and shrugged nonchalantly, “It’d be too easy to just tell you, man. Ruins the whole essence of our little game now.” 

 

The intruder clicked the button. In an instant, pain shot up Curt’s torso, forcing a gasp out of his chest and all breath from his lungs. His vision turned white and his mind became a haze, and he’s pretty damn certain he wasn’t even _standing_ throughout that whole episode. He felt the pain rather than the sensation of being picked up by the front of his hoodie and thrown across the room, back connecting to the television screen, sending it toppling with him as he slammed against the couch and rolled back onto the floor. A jolt of pain made Curt’s back feel like it was being fried, stars in his vision as he groaned and tried to get up.

 

He heard the clicks of footsteps, the assailant clearly, and he heard the clicking of a gun ready to fire. Curt’s disarmed, not a single weapon to save him, besides the knife in the inside of his pant leg. No, not feasible. Curt can’t execute anything good with that. He struggled to find a weapon, something to keep himself alive for a few more minutes. He could vaguely register vibrations from his wristwatch. In the daze of everything, his eyes fell on the picture frame, a still picture displaying the moment Owen captured his lips in a chapel in West Virginia.

 

_"Did you actually mean it?"_

 

_"Hm?" Curt looked up from his food to see Owen, framed perfectly in the soft lighting and aura of the restaurant. He had shed the coat jacket earlier on, now wearing a perfectly pristine white shirt. He smelled strongly of wine and camellias, the barest tint of a flush on his cheeks, and he smiled at Curt with the loving grace of an angel. “What? I didn’t catch that.”_

 

_"Your vows, earlier." Owen looked at him, lips curled around the last syllable, pursed. His eyes caught the flame of the table candle to become brilliantly powerful and soft in one breath, a warm kind of gaze that spread a flush over Curt’s own face. "Are you actually gonna protect me, through thick and thin?"_

 

_"I'm always gonna protect you," Curt said, leaning back as if becoming defensive of the question. Those eyes twinkled as he registered his words, and he gulped back a lump in his throat as he realized, oh hell, he meant what he’s saying. "Even if it's the last thing I'll do."_

 

Slowly, his hand reached for the picture frame. It was lightweight and cool, much like the baton he was holding earlier. Curt searched for the groove on the back of the frame and the glass surface of the front, feeling for the familiar ridges of a fingerprint scanner. His hand trembled as he pointed the frame at the intruder, now standing in front of him with his own gun pointing straight at him. 

 

The intruder scoffed, “What kind of weapon is that supposed to be?”

  
  
Curt gritted his teeth and aimed straight for the heart. The picture frame hummed to life as it recognized the fingerprint of its owner, the back of its frame hollowing out to reveal a small trigger, where he fitted his index finger on. “Love, fucker.” 

 

He squeezed the trigger. The picture frame responded with a burst of bullets, the sharp whistling in the air loud and scattered as it fired away. Curt wasn’t prepared for the recoil of the weapon, hell, it packs the punch of a standard M-16, and he was pretty sure his aim has gone to shit as it rained down bullets everywhere. He practically emptied the magazine clip and listened as it whirred down, another panel opening up to spill out the empty cartridges on the carpet.  

 

The intruder was currently laying flat on the floor, groaning loudly. Curt’s ears were ringing from being so near a firing gun as he set the picture frame aside, scrambling to get on his knees and crawl towards him. Curt pinned the intruder by his hips and raised the knife up, glaring down as he watched him try to take gasps of air. At least Curt managed to hit some bullets on him. The fucker couldn’t seem to die. 

 

“One more time,” Curt wheezed out, and he’s sure that something’s bruised. “Who sent you?” 

  
“Right about you…” The intruder laughed breathlessly, coughing out blood and looking up at Curt. He had bright, brilliant hazel eyes. It vaguely reminded him of Owen. “You are… killer.” 

 

His lips curled. With that fucking laugh came every memory of what he’s done in the Middle East, all the shadows he’s stepped into in the name of American sovereignity. His mind procured the images of all the CIA black sites, the interrogation tapes and the hikes around the desert, the way Simmons screamed awake at night when it was a particularly bad mission. Curt thought of the wary way Owen looked at him for a split second after that first night in bed, the whispers of his nightmares in the darkest of nights.

 

Curt sneered and looked at the intruder one more time, before driving the blade home.

 

He took a breath in. The intruder fell limp. He didn’t breathe out. 

 

Slumping back, he stared at the handle of the knife and realized what had happened. Staggering to his feet, Curt let out a scream, and scrambled made his way to the kitchen. 

 

He needed the first aid kit.

 

* * *

 

**_SIS Secure Channel 6_ **

**_Special Agent Owen Carvour_ **

**_Personal Correspondence_ **

 

**_June 17, 2019_ **

 

_Owen,_

 

_Good news for you and the team on site. One of our deep cover agents has confirmed that Dr. Baron von dem Knesebeck has been in contact with Chimera approximately the same time as he’s been in contact with Sergio Santos. This supports are theory that he may be collaborating with Santos to get weapons for an attack that may happen anywhere within Europe in the coming months._

 

_C would like to inform you that while you have no exact timeframe for your mission, urgency is necessary so that we can uncover what’s going on. A terrorist attack anytime now would not be favorable for the United Kingdom and the EU. Please try to work as efficiently as you can, dear._

 

_I’ve noted your concerns about Mega’s tranquilizers. It looks like Cynthia and I have to talk._

 

_Victoria Daniels_

 

Owen grinned widely to himself as he sat back in his chair, biting his lip and running a hand through his hair as he read the note. He looked up across him and was about to say something to Vincent when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and held it to his ear, listening to the warm voice of Curt, “How are we doing over there, Nate?” 

 

“Nick! I was just about to call you,” That had Vincent’s attention. They made eye contact as Owen held the phone closer to his ear, grin still wide on his face as he adjusted his hold. Funny, he was just about to call Curt to tell him about the news. Vincent tilted his head in wonder and he mouthed to him who was on the phone. “Great news from my boss. I can’t wait to tell you over dinner. Do you want to eat out tonight?” 

 

“That sounds nice, yeah,” There’s seemed to be a scuffle of something on the other side of the line, the dull thud of something hitting a solid surface. Curt’s breathing was shallow, shaky, and if Owen wasn’t in a good mood he’d say he sounded nervous. He dispelled the thought as he waited for what else Curt had to say. “Listen, come home as soon as you can, alright? I can’t have you getting a cold too.”

 

“Of course I will,” Owen giggled, before he heard the familiar click of a gun. All the joy and happiness he felt flew out of the window as a chill went down his spine, heart stuttering for just a second. He knew Curt was gonna be sent home early because of his cold. There are very few reasons why Curt would be breathless, shaky, and searching for a gun at this moment. Owen checked the time on his laptop, two hours too early for him to come home, and slowly asked, “Nick, is something wrong?”  

 

The call ended. He clammored out of his chair and looked around the office, mind reeling as he tried to think of what he can do or say to get himself out of work early. Vincent was already asking him questions but he paid no mind to it, pulling up his sleeve to check his watch for any notifications. 

 

_Unknown heat signature detected at the third floor attic._

 

Mother of God.

 

“Vincent, tell Stephen I went home early.” Owen said in the steadiest voice possible. Vincent watched him with open worry and concern, chair pushed aside as if ready to stand with him. “I have to get to my husband.” 

 

Everything was a blur after that. Owen hastily managed to get his laptop, papers, and other stuff in his satchel, bidding Vincent goodbye as he did. He walked through the Consulate floor with purpose, an unspoken dare that anyone would try and stop him. Halfway through the bullpen his watch chirped with a notification, and he flicked it up to read it. 

 

_Distress signal from Officer Curt Mega_

_4 minutes away. Respond?_

_Yes  No_

 

His heart practically stuttered to a stop. In an instant Owen's mind rumbled with thoughts of what it could be, the worst case scenario coming up front and center with the telltale warnings of Chimera. Owen walked faster, near running into the mail cart as he did. He was all speed and no finesse now, and frankly he didn't care, because time was of the essence and his partner was in danger. He offhandedly waved goodbye to the custodian up front and jammed his finger into the elevator button, tapping his foot nervously before the doors opened and he stepped in.

 

Curt needed help. Owen could only watch helplessly as his watch beeped with: _Curt Mega’s heart rate has surpassed 120 BPM._ He scrambled to calculate how fast it would take to get out of the building and to 50th Avenue in time to help. The numbers he got were disconcerting.

 

The world seemed to be working against him, too. The elevator stopped multiple times to let in other diplomats, their multiple languages mixing together to become a cacophony of conversation. Owen was easily pushed to the back of the elevator as he tapped his foot nervously, flicking his eyes from the door to the numbers that ticked backwards until it became G. 

 

He practically sped out of the elevator once the doors reeled open. He was a man on a mission, determined to get home, but the universe once more played against him as he saw the long line of people at the exit. The security guards were being thorough, making sure they weren't bringing home any classified documents. Owen bit back a sharp remark as his phone buzzed.

 

"Backup is on the way," Daniels said simply as soon as he answered his phone. Her tone was clipped, serious, and if he strained his ears he'd catch her worry. "Five minutes out." 

 

"Not enough time." He knew Curt. Curt fought with efficiency, with a speed and neatness that favored his strength. Despite that, he knew his partner wasn't so stable, and that at any moment he could be overpowered or provoked to do something a little drastic. "Vic, this is _my_ Curt we're talking about."

 

The next five minutes were a blur. Usually he'd appreciate how magnificent New York looked as dusk settled, the way the reflective surfaces captured the waning rays of the sun, but he ignored all that as he anxiously sped down the sidewalks to get home. He walked briskly and through the crowd of busy New Yorkers, not even bothering to apologize when he accidentally bumps into someone or nudges someone out of the way. 

 

As their home came into view, he started ringing Curt. His watch vibrated once or twice before the call was dropped. When he tried to call again, it couldn't locate it. There was a weight on Owen's chest as he sprinted up their steps, key in hand. He practically slammed the door open when he finally arrived back at the townhouse.

 

"Curt!" He doesn't bother with the cover. He's not even _worried_ for Nick Carter. He stepped into the living room and was shocked by the sight of blood, a corpse lying on their carpet with a handle protruding from its torso. He stepped back and listened for the whine of an ambulance, then turned back to the scene as he heard the whine of a kitten.

 

Owen stepped past the body to see that a cushion covered the box, pulling it back to see a frightened Agent. He gingerly picked the kitten up and ran a comforting finger over its tiny head, waltzing into the kitchen in search of his partner.

He honestly didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this scene. His Curt was sprawled on the kitchen floor, medical kit by his side with scattered equipment all over the place. There was a needle (no, a tranquilizer) poking out of Curt’s arm, small and tiny that Owen almost forgotten what it was. Curt looked at Owen like a fierce animal whose fire had been smothered by wounds. He was an injured wolf, eyes pleading for mercy. His hands were shaky, adorned with blood and spilled disinfectant, and if Owen looked closer he could see that his shirt had ridden up. He could see the newly forming bruises draping themselves across Curt’s stomach, splotchy and purple and _painful_.

 

“Curt!” Owen lurched forward in action, getting on his knees and startling the poor kitten in his hands. Horror colored Owen’s face pale as he realized what had happened, quickly pulling out the tranquilizer and throwing it aside. “Why did you take the tranquilizer, love?” 

 

“Right on time…” A crooked smile was on Curt’s face as he sniffled, and Owen realized then and there that there were tears in his eyes. “Sorry…” 

 

“What happened here?” Owen set Agent on Curt’s lap, who only scrambled away from the smell of blood and disinfectant. The two can only watch as Agent disappeared down the hallway, meowing loudly as if an alarm proclaiming a tiny warning.

  
“Even the kitten’s scared of me.” Curt murmured sadly, “He should be, anyway. I’m so sorry.” 

 

“Come here.” Owen bundled Curt in his arms, closing his eyes and ignoring how wet his shoulder became. Curt was warm, trembling in his arms, sniffling and letting out broken sobs that twisted his heart the wrong way. Owen held him tighter and felt more than saw the tears running down his own cheeks. 

 

If they heard the sirens of backup coming in to take care of their mess, neither dared to move away.

 

* * *

 

Something was terribly wrong. 

 

Dick Big stepped out of his truck and surveyed the scene, where a multitude of black cars and an ambulance were parked up on the avenue road. Reds and blues bounced off of surfaces as a gurney is brought down from the Carters' residence, a man with an oxygen mask on his face being attended to by two paramedics. 

 

The Carters! Dick rushed forward and removed his hat, old detective gears running as he realized what was going on. Men in suits were practically milling around the place (perhaps diplomatic security or the FBI, hell if he knew), talking to passersby or stepping into the Carters townhouse. On the steps of their porch was the couple themselves, with Nate rubbing Nick's hand and looking up to him with sad, wide eyes.

 

Gently, Dick approached them. There seemed to be something furry clinging onto Nick's lap, obscured by the fabric wrapped around his body. Slowly, Dick spoke as Nate tilted his head up. He'd never seen the man so protective. "It seems y'all are having a rough night. Have you tried talking to him?" 

 

“He’s in shock, Richard." Man, the only person who ever called him that was his mama, and that was when she was mad. Nate tensed up and leaned closer towards Nick, who seemed a little too pale for Dick's tastes. He obviously knew what shellshock was and how it affected veterans, and knew that it manifested in all sorts of ways. Nonetheless, it bothered him a lot to see the man so dazed, so unfocused and out of his element. Nate picked up one of the corners of his husband's blanket and held it up to his face. “Look, look here. He’s got a blanket!” 

 

"Hey, I get you," Dick raised his hands up in surrender. Nate's glower remained cold, icy as if he dared Dick to take another step forward. Nick weakly reached over to squeeze Nate's hand to calm him down and the latter flicked his eyes over to him worriedly, stroking his cheek and murmuring something he didn't quite catch. Dick’s heart squeezed and he couldn’t help but pity the two, dear god. Hardly even a week living in the neighborhood and they’ve already been roughened up. "If y'all wanna bunker down o'er at my place—"

 

"I think we'll manage, but thank you for the concern," Nate cut him off abruptly, then turned back to attend to his husband. The conversation seemed to end there.

 

That was alright for Dick, no big deal. Sometimes people are apprehensive after their first taste of the criminal underworld, maybe a little protective of their loved ones. It was good that Nate was concerned for his partner, in fact, it seemed to be a good twist to their typical routine. He’s sure that Nick was used to being the one who consoled Nate, but now it seemed to be the opposite. Dick can ask them next time about what happened, when Nick and Nate were a little better. He eyed the men in suits once more and stepped away from the couple, observing the way they moved about the scene. They seem to be in good hands for now.

 

He turned his eyes towards the gurney; perhaps he can try and profile their intruder. He could think of a few friends in the force who he can ask to ID the suspect. Dick was about to step closer into the ambulance when he noticed a few key, important things:

 

One, those paramedic uniforms look a little too thick to be standard issue.

 

Two, the ambulance lacked a car plate. 

 

And three, the patient wasn’t breathing. 

 

The ambulance doors were shut close after that, and it sped away from the scene. Dick watched it go before it disappeared down the main arteries of Manhattan, turning back towards the two who were still on the porch. Nate delicately placed a kiss on Nick's cheek as he continued to rub gentle circles on it, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Nick's for a moment. 

 

Dick narrowed his eyes and watched Nick carefully. He wasn't breathing normally. 

 

His mind swirled as the details clicked into play. There was a lot to take in. As soon as he was in the safety of his own home, Dick slowly pulled out a phone and dialled the number of an old friend. It rang twice before it was answered, a cheerful tone on the other line.

 

"Dick, my guy!" His name was Al. He worked in the 911 hotline, answering calls in and out and directing first responders to where they're needed. He sometimes helped in cases that required transcripts of the 911 calls. Usually he did it out of respect for Dick's job, also reasoning how cool it was to play the gumshoe's informant. "Whatcha need bro?"

 

"Was anyone sent to 50th Avenue? Near me?" Dick said as he looked out his front window. The Carters were still on the front porch, being questioned by a man in a suit. Nate had an arm around Nick's shoulders. Protective. 

 

A clacking of keys was heard on the other line, "Actually, we got a call from there half an hour ago. A shop or two down. Mrs. D'Esposito? Oh, this is strange."

 

Dick perked up and straightened, catching the confusion in Al's tone. He watched the couple carefully as they answered the questions. He tried to read the lips of the man in the suit. It was moving too fast for him to read. "What is strange?"

 

"First response tried to come but they were blocked from the scene." Dick inhaled sharply. Thoughts clicked together as he listened to Al explain what was going on. No police cars, no ambulances, not even a fire truck could get through to respond. 

 

"So we had no guys here?" Dick looked out the window once more. Those paramedics _did_ look a little strange to him. He looked at the Carters one more time. "I'll call you back." 

 

He ended the call. Something was amiss about this whole situation, something off. Dick was in the middle of a conspiracy, he can tell, and how this involved the Carters was uncertain. Despite the disconnected lines of thought, however, one thing was for sure.

 

Something was wrong with the Carters, and Dick was gonna get to the bottom of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore and notes! Lore and notes!  
> \- We have a word count of 9797 words solely because we realized the potential of hitting our current total word count. You're welcome ;)  
> \- The title of this song is derived from Insomnia by IAMX, one of my fave songs to date!! Give it a listen, it's a big fat mood.  
> \- Simmons!! Her socks are a reference to the Area 51 meme that's going around the 'Net.  
> \- We've yet to write more of it, but as of late the narration in Curt's scenes are to be tinged with Gen Z lingo and memes mainly to indicate how Pim and Xander have somewhat influenced his train of thought. Very amusing. Very experimental. I hope it's well-received.  
> \- A variation of our iconic line is here! Obviously uttered by Simmons, we should really talk about how that line came to be, hm?  
> \- More MKO rights have been spilled onto this chapter, with references to certain imagery and alternate timelines. Y'all fucking think I've been inactive on the server when I've been lurking. Your local wolf imagery was made by Lilly!!  
> \- An old thing I picked up from my other writings is the use of text format! To hit the desired word count we had to find a way to condense a scene, and that was a solution I figured out! Hope it worked :)  
> \- Choreographing a fight scene is frankly one of my favorite things to do, as it would let me flex what I know from years of research + basic training from school. Frankly the choreography of this chapter is very different from my initial drafts, but at least key elements of it were retained to execute properly! Another motif I've used frequently in past writings was the electric baton, mainly as a reference to my basic training in arnis, as the weapon is so convenient for close range defense. Yes, you can actually defend yourself against a knife with it. No, I never went that far into basic training. I'm so glad I got to let Curt use it for this chapter, it's a fantastic weapon to have.  
> \- Friendly reminder to all: A strong hit to the side of the face, especially the ears, tends to disorient the opponent because equilibrium. Very useful to know for self-defense, please recall.  
> \- At that, counting backwards concept was made by Cailin, so she has to be thanked for that!!  
> \- "He curtly ended the call." was a joke I figured out at some crackhead hour in the night, please laugh.  
> \- Picture frame gun! We did say it was gonna come back up, yeah? Well, here it is, I'm so glad we've reached this, and I will not shut up about it!!  
> \- "C" is used to refer to the Chief aka head of the MI6/SIS.  
> \- The tranqs have been used! I think it's very nice to point out that at this point, Owen doesn't care about the cover. He cares about Curt.  
> \- "Look, look here. He’s got a blanket!" is a direct reference to BBC Sherlock!  
> \- Dick Big's suspicion is reasonable, and we may see more of it in the coming episodes. 
> 
> Thank you so much for waiting, and please leave your kudos and comments!!
> 
> \- Team Fama, blasting off again ;)


	9. guilty of loving you too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings, but this chapter can be a little spicy? 
> 
> Hi!! We are back!! So sincerely sorry for taking a while, the sudden influx of work required for my courses shook me and I had to do the work. As mentioned, with the new school year the updates may be a little sluggish, but we pursue nonetheless!! 
> 
> We dedicate this chapter to Millie for validating us with gucci art since Day 1. I hope you love it. I loved writing it.
> 
> The biggest love to Cailin, Lilly, and Percy. The ride's getting a little scary, please hold my hand.

It was only half past seven in the evening. The city was alive with its evening symphony of honking horns, the noisy chatter of pedestrian traffic, the lilting music of street performers, and the whining of sirens from police cars and ambulances. The rain has returned for an encore, blanketing the city with an added haze and blur that made the world seem washed of its darkness. The last car of agents have already left them not long ago, and New York has easily forgotten of what happened on 50th Avenue. 

 

Everyone but those of 50th Avenue, of course. 

 

Owen took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, shoulders sagging as the stress of the day left him. He felt so tired. Whatever excitement he felt earlier was gone now, replaced with a bone deep worry and exhaustion that tempted him to crawl into bed and close his eyes. Yes, that sounded good. He could just sleep the worry away.

 

But no, he needed the time to think. He remembered the scene earlier, with all the agents milling about, many of them poking and prodding their home. Owen moved Agent to the bedroom upstairs when the cleaners came to clean up their mess of a living room, and currently the kitten was fast asleep in its box. The cleaners were rather effective and would return to patch up the bullet holes on their wall later, and soon there would be no trace of the excursion that happened there. 

 

Owen tried to remember the faces of the men and women he saw. They were mostly ones that were "easy to forget", ordinary people who wouldn't get a second look. The only person that stood out was a Muslim woman in lavender, sticking out brightly amongst the blacks and greys, clear worry and concern on her features. She didn't look like she was supposed to be there, but by watching the way she spoke with other agents with familiarity, it showed otherwise. She seemed hesitant to approach him at first but she eventually did, asking if they were alright.

 

"We could be better," Owen had said to her, watching her carefully. Her eyes flitted to Curt every now and then, hands twitchy but hesitant to make a move. When he turned to watch Curt's reaction, he saw that he hardly even twitched, not even looking up to greet their company. She didn't seem surprised nor insulted and merely nodded respectfully before returning with the rest of the team. 

 

Odd, he never even got her name. 

 

Barb called when they were still preoccupied with the CIA agents prowling around their townhouse. Owen was the one who took the call, seeing as Curt was in no shape to do much talking. She spoke too quickly in her tiny voice that it took him a little too long to figure out what she was saying. He answered all of her questions as concisely as possible, constantly reassuring her that everything was alright, the picture frame was actually a gun, and that she didn't need to check up on them personally. When it was his turn to ask about the tranquilizers, Barb was suddenly quiet and vague about it. 

 

"Did he take one?" She had asked, suddenly too slow and too quiet. Owen would say he got whiplash from her sudden change in mood, but held back commenting on it as he replied. 

 

"Just one." 

 

"Then that's fine," Barb said simply, "Give him an hour. It'll work slowly."

 

And she ended the call after that. Owen could only stare at his phone in an attempt to understand her sheer audacity to put down the phone without even saying goodbye. He thought of calling her again to talk about it more with her, but easily changed his mind as soon as he considered what had to be done. 

 

Daniels left him a message while he was in the shower, apparently. The break-in was hardly subtle, and theories pointed its primary objective to be attacking Curt. She and Cynthia have decided (albeit begrudgingly, in Daniels’ part), that they remain in 50th Avenue and continue on with the mission. She’s requested the MI6 team on-site to move to the house a few doors down from them, and last Owen checked with Stephen, they had yet to move in. Owen wasn’t so sure how he felt about his co-workers living not far from him, but if it meant it would protect Curt, then that will do.

 

Owen stared at the apple juice box he nabbed from the fridge. Neither have eaten dinner (Owen was too busy, Curt had no appetite) or any meal since that afternoon, and Owen would much rather have Curt eat something. He had no idea what that tranquilizer did exactly, nor did he know how long he’d have to watch Curt slowly crumble and become… incoherent. Owen was watching a chemically induced dissociation episode unfold in real time, and he was so bothered by how docile and spaced out Curt has been. 

 

He stepped into the bathroom, where he left Curt not too long ago. He was still seated on the toilet seat, hunched over himself, hands still stained with the blood of the intruder. It was a dirty, almost rusty color against his slightly tanned skin, and bits of it were buried underneath his fingernails. Owen set the juice box down on the counter, turning to take a basin of water that he filled up earlier prior to going downstairs. 

 

There was something familiar about this whole setup, a persistent feeling of deja vu that nagged him as he knelt in front of Curt. He reached a hand up to tilt his chin back, to watch those glossy eyes meet his own, and see the slow gears in Curt’s murky head click to form thought. 

 

“I’m not fine china, Carvour.” Ah, so that’s where the familiarity is. Owen bit back a smile as he recalled their first night together, the way he shaved Curt clean of that disgusting beard. This seemed to be the second situation they've had where Curt's hands were out of commission. Not that he minded. 

 

Gently, Owen took one of his hands and set it down into the basin of water, "I know."

 

There was something so raw and vulnerable about this whole setup. Owen was gentle with cleaning Curt's hand, rubbing tiny circles over the skin with his thumb to loosen the dried blood. Every ounce of gentleness and love he can ever offer Curt was transmitted with every gentle movement, in soft but firm grasps and quiet instruction to turn the hand this and that. Owen felt more than saw the sleepiness that was slowly wrapping itself around Curt, the way his eyes were half-lidded and devoid of expression. When he looked up to check on him, Curt was quiet, jaw set, concentrating on something. Owen quickly figured that he was resisting the tranquilizer.

 

"Curt," Owen murmured quietly, reaching a free hand up to tilt his chin back once more. If he looked hard enough there were still tear tracks on his face, and he used his thumb to gently swipe them away. His next words were hesitant, and he almost didn’t say them at all if not for the quiet look on Curt’s face. “Would you like to come to bed with me?” 

 

A beat. It’s been a little over a week since Curt started sleeping on the couch. As much as Owen wouldn’t want to admit it out loud, he got rather fond too quickly of Curt’s warm body against his own in the bed, the comfort of something solid to wrap his limbs around a missing component in his daily routine. Now more than ever, Owen needed the reassurance that his Curt was safe and sound, untouched by their intruder from earlier, and if that came in the form of getting him to bed, then that will do. He wanted to say that Curt needed it as much as he did, but pride forced him to swallow back those words as he patiently waited for a reply. 

 

Wide-eyed, Curt spoke, a tiny voice escaping out of thick lips, “Are you sure you want me in bed with you?” 

 

“Absolutely, love.” Owen retracted his hand and turned his attention back towards cleaning Curt’s hands, running his fingernail under Curt’s to loosen the dirt there. Every now and then he batted the hand between his own in mild playfulness, mostly to get a positive rise out of Curt’s placid expression. Sometimes he’d receive a smile, a little chuckle, before there was silence as Owen returned to work. 

  
When he was done, he stood and shuffled towards the bathroom sink, where he tipped the basin and drained the water from it. The water swirled around the porcelain, tinged red with all the blood it washed away, disappearing down the drain with a bubbling noise before there was silence. Owen took the apple juice box and went over the motions of opening it, popping the straw into the hole and handing it over to Curt. 

 

When Curt looked at him strangely, Owen reasoned. “You need  _ something  _ in your stomach, love.” 

 

Curt stared at him for a while before shrugging and taking the juice box, taking a long sip and sighing happily. He seemed a little more alert now, eyes opened wider and taking in things more clearly. Satisfied with this, Owen turned around to get ready for bed, picking up his toothbrush and toothpaste. 

 

Every now and then he flicked his eyes to Curt as he was brushing his teeth, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell slowly. Sometimes Curt would smack his lips together after taking a long sip from the juice box, and Owen would hear him hum in satisfaction before going back to drinking it. It didn’t take long before the box was drained and deposited in a trash bin. Owen spat out the last bit of toothpaste in his mouth and dipped his head forward to wipe his face clean of any other traces of foam. 

 

When he felt hands on his waist, he straightened himself to find Curt standing behind him. That gaze was far more focused now, razor sharp, staring straight at his own through the mirror. There were a few whiskers of a scruff appearing on Curt’s face. Owen vaguely recalled that Curt usually shaved on Mondays. He looked Curt square in the eye and offered him a smile, “Would you like me to step aside to let you shave, love?”    
  
“Don’t think I have the energy for that.” Curt said calmly, stepping forward as his hands wandered forward and his arms moved to wrap around Owen’s waist. Owen could feel his forehead between his shoulder blades, a deep sigh warming his back as Curt held him firmly. His hands were clasped over Owen’s stomach, and Owen eyed the way that golden band glinted before the mirror with just a smidge of blood on its surface. He switched on the faucet for a moment to wet his hand. 

 

Slowly, he covered Curt’s hands with his own and thumbed the wedding band on his finger to blot out the blood that was still there. “What do you have the energy for, then?” 

 

Owen tried not to squeak as he was suddenly turned around, those hands disappearing to rest on his waist with a firm grip. Curt’s body was warmly pressed against him, hands keeping him pressed against the sink. Owen tilted his head down to look at Curt as he spoke, breath short,  “Kiss me.” 

 

“I’m sorry?” It was reflexive. Of course he heard what Curt said, understood what he meant, but he simply cannot wrap his mind around why. Was it for the sake of the cover? Was it to find a semblance of peace?

 

Hell, was this the day he’ll find out that the man reciprocates his feelings? Owen’s heart thundered in his chest as he openly gaped at Curt. He’s always considered that this mission would risk those feelings, force them out in the open where he’d have to confront and dissect them in front of the one man that mattered most to him. He never considered if he was ready to talk about it, was he ready to tell Curt about it now? Owen took a deep breath in and tried to assess how Curt was. Curt was trembling. Hands warm. Heated. Firm. 

 

“I want you to kiss me, I—”  Curt swallowed back a lump in his throat, and Owen watched the way it bobbed with the movement. There was a flicker of unsureness in Curt’s face, a blimp of a loss of control, before his expression was fixed firmly back on his face. He was never so hyper fixated with how Curt acted and moved, and he frankly wasn’t so sure if he was only paying attention because he was so worried for him. His mouth felt too dry and he couldn’t utter another word as he watched Curt. Owen resisted the urge to bite his lip as he swore internally,  _ Lord, have mercy.  _ “Need to feel something. Need to feel real.” 

 

The thoughts clicked. Ah, so that’s what this is all about. In a moment Owen’s mind ceased as he realized the implications of what was going on. This is the first time Curt’s actively seeking for comfort through him, to find some semblance of peace after all that’s happened. Owen’s hands twitched to move forward as he continued staring at Curt, feeling those hands retract from his waist before—

 

Warm lips on his own. Owen’s eyes widened as he realized he was being kissed, by Curt himself, with no other prompt besides what was previously said. Those lips were so soft, pliant, easy to melt against and focus on. His mind clamored with this new information before it settled, drawing to a blank, no other thoughts on his mind besides that moment.

 

He closed his eyes. Curt tasted like the apple juice that lingered on his lips, with maybe the barest trace of iron in his tongue. It’s only now that Owen got to notice how he smelled very much like camellias (odd, he was sure Curt’s body soap was still full), how his skin was so hot under his touch, and how insistent those lips were to press against his until Owen couldn’t tell who was pressing against who. Curt was pressed against Owen, practically molded against his own body, and Owen resisted the urge to let his hands stray from where they were, Curt’s arms.  

 

Owen didn’t pay much mind to the bathroom sink that was pressing incessantly against the small of his back. He merely leaned forward to take Curt’s face in both hands, stroking his thumbs over the barely there stubble that was already growing. Curt was practically vibrating with warmth, a furnace pressed against him, and Owen could do nothing but melt to its heat and mold himself to it until he’s lost all form of identification between himself and Curt. 

 

When they separate, Owen breathes and flicks his eyes open. Curt’s pupils were blown wide open and he’s sure as hell his was, too. “You know I can’t say no to that.” 

 

Those lips found his again. Blindly, the pair made their way out of the bathroom. Owen knew he knocked the lights off with his back against the switch, and a quick peep indicated that the lights were switched off. Navigating their bedroom with his eyes closed was difficult, what with his fear of stepping on Curt’s feet, but that was easily dispelled by the hasty hands that skittered over his body and skin. Owen wondered if Curt could feel how hard his heart thundered against his chest.

 

He felt his knees buckling. The bed was soft when he landed, creaking with the sudden surprise of weight landing on it. Owen’s spine seemed to have given up on him too, because suddenly his back was pressed against the soft mattress and he had an armful of Curt. He scrambled to sit up as Curt quickly adjusted to sit on Owen’s lap, the heavy weight of the man putting pressure on what sits between his legs. With every shift of movement they made came sweet friction, and  _ oh  _ it was too delicious that Owen has to force himself to pull away and breathe properly.     

 

Hands deftly pulled on his dress shirt, and he was pretty damn sure a few buttons were popped off as it was eventually discarded. Those lips took his again and everything devolved into a blur of nothing. Owen allowed himself to fall back into bed, the last of his breath swallowed by those lips. Everything was a haze of warmth and sweet friction and  _ perfection  _ that Owen hoped to God he wasn’t dreaming. Even he wasn’t capable of concocting anything as sweet or as passionate as this.

 

Curt was so thorough, a man on a mission. His hands skirted over every bit of Owen he could go over, and he let him do so as his fingertips brushed his sides, the small of his back, up to his shoulder blades and resting on his biceps. Those fingers on scars both old and new, tracing for just a moment before they ventured elsewhere, and Owen could only breathe out a sigh with the attention he was receiving. A hand rested on his belly and remained there as the other continued on, eventually resting on his hair to give it a light tug.

 

A gasp of air and he broke the kiss. Owen’s eyes flew open to stare up at the ceiling, feeling more than seeing the grin that broke over Curt’s face. Curt’s lips glide past his own and lower, slotting itself against the underside of his chin to give it a firm kiss. Owen’s eyes fluttered closed once more as it remained on his skin, teeth scraping against it.

 

A nagging thought reminded him that this was for Curt’s comfort. Rationally speaking, the poor man hasn’t gotten laid in  _ years _ due to the nature of his work and the place he’s been stationed in. Owen wasn’t so sure if he was entirely alright with being used as a means towards comfort in this moment, especially when it was sending him contradicting signals about what Curt needed. The lines blurred over whether or not he was his partner or his husband in this moment, his friend or his lover (were they even lovers?), and he reeled for a moment in an attempt to gauge the situation. Something about this whole setup was twisting his stomach, as if it was all wrong and against the mission itself. 

 

Still, Owen took his sweet time to memorize this moment, to catalogue the way Curt’s hand skirted over his skin. He arched his back up and let out a gasped sigh as Curt moved his hips against his own, hardness pressing against his own. He bit his lip as he deigned to look down at what Curt was doing, feeling the rough suction of lips against his skin. Curt finally popped off after a moment and went back to give him one more kiss, deep and passionate that had his eyes fall back closed. 

 

"Love you," Curt murmured into his ear between breathless and open-mouthed kisses, and through the raging beating of his heart, Owen could only nod uselessly before the world dipped into obscurity once more. 

 

His hands found purchase on the hem of Curt’s shirt, and he scrambled to sneak his fingers past the fabric to skitter his fingers over the tough muscle underneath it. Immediately his hands were smacked away and bunched together to be held up above his head by a singular hand, warm and encompassing his wrists. Owen resisted the urge to make a comment about it as Curt pulled away, a dry look on his face as he regarded Owen, before he slipped away from his lips to return to the curve of his chin.

 

Owen tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he allowed himself to be like that, to be taken as Curt pleased. He flexed his wrists and rotated them a little in Curt’s hand, feeling the way that grip tightened to a near satisfying kind of tightness before—

 

“I’m sorry.” 

  
Hesitantly Owen held back a deep sigh and opened his eyes to see Curt looming over him, a spread of fear over his expression. He tried to sit up but was still held down by Curt’s hand on his wrists. “Sorry for what?” 

 

“I—” Flicking his eyes up hesitantly, Curt released his grip on Owen’s wrists and backed off in an instant, reluctantly getting off of Owen’s lap. He resisted the urge to beg him to stay on, to get back with the program, to  _ kiss him again goddamnit,  _ but he fell silent. Owen watched Curt, watched the way he shrank into himself and fumbled, and felt his heart ache. “I shouldn’t have forced myself on you.” 

 

_ But you didn’t.  _ Owen worried his lip as he tried to go over what he can say to calm the situation down, feeling his heart thundering against his own chest. God, he’s wanted this for  _ so  _ long. He’s forced himself into a situation where he has to choose: what he wants or what Curt needed? In the end, he picked the latter. “It’s just the tranquilizer doing it’s thing, love. You aren’t thinking straight.”

 

Curt hummed, sitting on his haunches. “You’re right.” 

 

Owen looked away and shifted in their bed, turning towards where his typical side was. He shed the last of his work clothes and murmured to Curt that he was gonna get ready for bed, and that he ought to too. He disappeared back into the bathroom and locked the door. He dialled the temperature to something frigid and watched as the water sprayed over the shower stall. After a moment’s hesitation he flicked it back to something hot and decided to take matters into his own hands. He hardly lasted. 

 

When he came back moments later, wearing nothing but an old pair of boxers, he found that Curt has managed to curl himself into his side of the bed. His back was slowly expanding and retracting with every breath, and Owen was rather pleased to know that he has finally succumbed to the effects of the tranquilizer. He slowly rounded the bed and slid into his side, burying himself in the comforters and blankets as he watched Curt, fast asleep, breathing deep. 

 

“Love you too,” Owen murmured, mostly to himself, before the world dipped into obscurity once more. 

 

* * *

 

Dawn breaks. 

 

It breaks gently. Owen slowly opened his eyes to the soft sunlight filtering through their bedroom windows, casting gentle rays over the bed and onto the floor. The room was perfectly cool, the kind that tempted him to remain in bed for the rest of the day, a weight resting heavily on his body that could lull him to sleep. The pitter-patter of rain from outside bounced around the four walls of the room as a comforting white noise. 

 

A morning downpour. Suddenly the thought of walking to the Consulate doesn't sound so appealing.

 

So he'll lean into his Curt, lean into his comforting warmth and scent. Owen secured his arms around Curt's waist, leaning in closer to catch a whiff of camellias that remained tangled in his skin. It made his chest swell with possessiveness whenever he thinks of it, thinks of the distinct body wash that still lingered. Curt was a great contrast to the coolness of the room. He was perfectly warm, not too hot that he made the bed feel sweltering hot, and not too cool that Owen wouldn't get anything from him. 

 

He closed his eyes as he kept himself there, keeping his nose half-buried in the crook of Curt's neck. Last night was, well. It was  _ fantastic _ , but even then the word didn't fully encompass it. It was everything Owen could ever hope for and then some, and his chest ached knowing that he'll never have another chance like that again. This was always what he wanted with Curt, mission be damned, and if he can just have a chance to have it then by God, let him. He needed this, this time with this Curt, in this bed and in this bedroom and this morning. 

 

The bed creaked with moment and Owen took a deep breath upon realizing it wasn't him who moved. He tilted his head up. “Are you awake, love?” 

 

Slowly, Curt came to with a quiet groan and minimal shifting. His arm slid across them to wrap itself around Owen, and he bit back a shiver of something that went down his spine. Dear god, he wasn’t sure if he was hard because it was morning or because Curt was so warm next to him. Curt tilted his head back from its place on the pillow. “Miss this bed.” 

 

“I know you do. You don’t have to exile yourself to the couch, you know.” Curt gave a noncommittal hum, rolling away and off of his partner. Owen frowned, scrambling to have that warmth back with him by wrapping an arm around Curt, pulling him back towards himself. He let himself curl around the American, acting as the big spoon. “Curt, why did you use the tranq?” 

 

Silence. Owen watched Curt carefully, feeling the way his chest expanded and retracted in his arms. He could practically  _ hear  _ those gears turning in Curt’s head, as if he was going over every excuse he could possibly use. He’s not even sure the man was fully awake, if the influence of the tranquilizer was completely flushed out of his system. He’s pretty sure Curt’s going to lie to him, but at least he was gonna give him some sort of explanation to all this.

 

He held him a little tighter. In his mind Owen relived the dread he felt when he stepped out of their townhouse to greet their first responders, stepping over shattered glass and splintered wood scattered over their carpet. He remembered looking at their bullet ridden walls and running a finger over the holes. He wished to whichever deity was listening that none of them went through Curt, that none of them deigned to bury itself through him and then break away. He recalled the terror of staring at the dead body, the knife handle jutting out where a heart should be. 

 

Owen remembered disappearing back into the kitchen to where Curt sat. He was sweating profusely, trembling like a leaf in winter, curled into himself. The tranquilizer had been discarded and rolled off somewhere. Owen had reached forward and wrapped his arms around Curt once more and rocked them just a little. The time between that and the moment someone wrapped a large orange blanket around them was left unmeasured. Owen didn't even know who gave the blanket to them.

 

Curt was shifting in bed again when he broke out of his trance. The man was gently rolling himself in their position, pushing back from Owen to give himself some space. Owen scooted back just a little to watch as Curt adjusted himself, laying his head on the opposite pillow. He looked wide awake now. He took his time. Owen wanted to reach over and cup his cheek so badly. "I could hurt you. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” 

 

“You can never hurt me, Curt. I know you.” Owen replied back, knowing full well he was lying. Memories of the various sparring sessions they had came up to the surface. Every shouting match between missions started to play. The memory of Curt's hands, firm and tight, over his throat emerged front and center. It's as if his mind came to argue against his point with evidence, catalogued neatly according to time and date. Why did he say that, anyway, was it to lie for Curt's convenience? For himself?

 

No, he reasoned with himself. All those incidents were accidental, superficial. Owen had forgiven him each time. 

 

Curt, however, doesn't seem to be as forgiving to himself. There’s sadness in his tone as he sniffled, turning his back to Owen, as if ashamed. “You don’t even know what I do for a living.” 

 

How badly he wanted to reach over and touch his shoulder, gently turn Curt over and cup his cheek. He would lean forward and kiss him once, maybe twice, maybe over and over in silent affirmation. He'll kiss him for eternity, in that single picturesque moment, in that rainy morning of busy Manhattan. Kiss.  _ I know you.  _ Kiss.  _ I can help you.  _ Kiss.  _ I love you.  _

 

But Owen curled his fist, gritted his teeth. This world they live in isn't the one they desired, not the one  _ he  _ desired. There was no time for fantasy. 

 

“I know.” Owen finally breathed, mostly to the open air, and said nothing more. 

 

He watched as Curt shifted, maybe to make himself a little more comfortable. The white noise of New York's early morning downpour continued over them, perhaps a little stronger than earlier. Owen had a million thoughts in his mind but didn't dare to act on any of them, instead firmly sealing his mouth shut and watching as Curt's breathing evened out. Slowly, he stretched out his arm hesitantly, tempted to reach for Curt and hold him again. He fell short by an inch. Owen couldn't force himself to move any closer. This had to be some sort of ultimate metaphor for their whole relationship: there but never touching. Existing but never completely settled. 

 

Owen fell back asleep like that, arm outstretched, fingertips hovering over the small of Curt's back. 

 

* * *

 

“Are you quite sure you’re alright, Nick? I don’t mean to impose but you didn’t seem mighty fine last night.”

 

Nick Carter was quite a character, if Dick was to be asked about it. He knew too little and too much about the man who lived next door, enough to gauge his basic essence but not enough to truly know him. Dick knew that he was rather closed off, as expected of a recently returned war veteran, with demons he has to fight. He remembered the times he woke up to loud clatters from across the wall, muffled cursing and soft words, before silence and the choked up breaths of a man crying. Dick certainly noticed the dark circles that were barely there underneath Nick and his husband's eyes. He knew they were trying to fight those demons together. 

 

Still, something seemed a little strange about them. Both of them were rather tense and awkward whenever he saw them, as if they didn’t want him around when they were together. They always seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. They always seemed to be ready to get away from Dick as soon as he popped in to say hi. 

 

Dick thought of the body that laid too still and the men in suits that milled about 50th Avenue. He thought of all the cases he’s been looking at lately, all the strange criminal activity about their part of Manhattan.

 

The living room seemed mostly fixed up, though that may be due to some obscure insurance policy for diplomats such as Nick’s husband, Nate. It looked unscathed for the most part, besides the half-full trash can set to the side. There was a kitten purring between his feet now, nudging its nose against his boots, and he fought the urge to pick it up and set it down on his lap. Across him, on the couch, Nick was calmly swishing around a glass of sweet tea. 

 

“I’m alright, Dick. Thank you for your concern though.” Nick said, tone calm, eyes crinkling with barely there politeness. Military men had such weird ways of showing politeness. They were usually so curt about it, blunt and straight to the point. It was always delivered with a certain degree of  _ awkwardness  _ that Dick would have said that those folks have no clue how to be polite with all the toughness in their bones.  

 

He adjusted his seating on the chair across from Nick, pulling his stetson onto his lap. Nick Carter was also quite the host. He had that distinct charm and eagerness to take care of his needs, almost in a way that reminded Dick of his own mother. It still had that touch of rigidness expected of the military, but his kindness seemed to bleed through. If Dick didn’t know better, he’d say that Nick was from the south, much like himself. 

 

His mind went back to last night. Dick didn’t come to the Carters residence just to spend time with his mysterious neighbor. Baking Nick some apple pie and making sweet tea wasn’t just something nice to do to help him cope with the break-in. It was incentive, a little oomph to get him to talk a little, so he can figure out if there could be anything he can do to help him. Dick Big was currently a man on the case, with a bone itching for some sort of solace. 

 

Something about Nick Carter was throwing him off for some reason, pointing him towards something, something worth paying attention to. 

 

Dick licked his lips, and wondered how he’s gonna word this. “I’m not sure how… out of it you were then, but I noticed something odd about the first responders who showed up.”

 

“Oh?” Setting the glass down a bit harshly, Nick coughed as he frowned confusedly at Dick’s direction. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned away, shirt pulling up just to reveal a patch of skin darker than its surrounding bits. Dick resisted the urge to lean forward and pull the shirt back to further examine if it was what he thought it was, and instead gripped his stetson a little tighter before releasing it. 

 

Dick put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Of course, I don’t mean to alarm you or nothing, it’s just… I thought you oughta know that something seems hinky about all this.”

 

And that’s true. He just can’t shake off that feeling that something didn’t click about this whole situation, as if he was in the middle of a conspiracy but he didn’t know what. There was talk in the bars he frequented of heightened criminal activity around the darker parts of New York, whispers of some mythological creature rearing its ugly head (heads? Some people said heads) at their part of town. The coming of his neighbors and the increasing volume of those whispers had to be connected somehow. 

 

Despite the alarm Dick felt, it seemed to merely be a direct opposite to what Nick appeared to feel. The veteran across him was blasé, somewhat unbothered, and Dick hoped to god that it was just the military training and whatever brazen attitude they hammer into their troops nowadays. He hoped this wasn’t stubbornness. He always hated uncooperative witnesses. 

 

“Well, I suppose it’s something to do with Nate working at the consulate.” Nick merely shrugged,  “Government dealings and all.”

 

Dick sat back and checked the time on the wall. It was already half past 9. Anytime now, he’d have to go to the ranch upstate and help out with the horses. He’s been there for the past hour trying to get information out of Nick. For the past hour he has somehow evaded every question Dick threw at him. Soldiers in the army got interrogation training, right? Dick didn’t want to know if this was an example of that training at work, pure stubbornness, or sheer reluctance to talk about it. 

 

But everyone had to concede. Dick did with reluctance. He may have lost the battle, but certainly not the war, as they say. “I reckon that could have something to do with it.” 

 

They lapsed into silence after that. Dick took in his surroundings once more to take stock of whatever details he may have missed. The rain has settled for a moment to allow for a brief recess of sunlight. Sleepy and faint rays skittered from the windows behind him, spilling on the floor with the lazy grace expected of sunshine. There was a little plate on the coffee table between them that had a slice of apple pie, a bite already sliced off of its top. 

 

“Hey Dick…” Nick picked up the little plate and cut himself another bit of the pie. The fork went cleanly through the slice, and the little thing nearly crumbled onto its side as he pulled the fork into his mouth. Just the barest bit of filling was on the corner of his lips. "Did Nate seem off to you today?"

 

Dick thought of the time earlier when Nate opened the door that morning. He looked flushed, lips plush, maybe a little flustered to be getting a house call. When they had that morning chat he didn't seem to be strange, maybe embarrassed by being caught off guard. Finally, he hummed and said, "Not so, really."

 

"Okay." A beat. “Do you think I’m a bad person?” 

 

He blinked, surprised by the sudden question. Instantly his mind reeled over past training with trauma patients, what to do and what not to do, and instantly came to a conclusion. He thought of all the instances he met Nick on the path between their houses, whether or not he was with Nate, and all the times he saw him whenever he passed by the bakery he worked at. Dick thought of all of the things he heard on the other side of the wall, the quiet sobs and the loud screaming during the late evening. 

 

“I reckon you ain’t. You’re a real nice feller, Nick.” Dick said after a moment of thought, and he meant every word he said. “Just got some bad stuff done to you.” 

 

As Nick laid back, released from a burden he’s been carrying for too long, that’s when it hit him. 

 

Nick Carter was acting too calm about the incident. 

* * *

 

Vincent whipped off his scarf and hat as he stepped into the lift, grimacing at how damp it was. After wiping his hands on his trousers, he gingerly checked his hearing aids and found them thankfully dry. He couldn’t have risked taking them out whilst walking through the busy New York streets, so shoving on a hat and running had been his only option. His attempt to wait out the rain had been futile, leaving him both soggy and late. He had already began preparing his apologies as he exited the lift and nodded at the receptionist at the front table. 

 

Going through the bullpen was one of the more difficult parts of the morning, seeing as he did not usually like the flurry of noise in that place. Thankfully, only half of the usual people were in due to the inclement weather. He cut through the cubicles with a practiced ease, nodding at some of the people he knew before disappearing down the hallway to where the offices were. He rapped his knuckles on Stephen’s office door as he passed by, popped into Carys’ to say hi, before he finally approached their shared office.

 

“So sorry, boss, got caught in the rain,” Vincent started, shimmying his coat off too as he walked. “I mean, you know how it…”

 

Vincent trailed off, realizing he was talking to an empty room. The projectors he left open the other night were still on, reeling with fresh updates from Vauxhall that he had yet to read through. Papers from last night were left untouched. Owen’s side of the desk was empty, his chair jacketless. The tea Carys usually left him was still steaming on his side of the desk. Vincent checked the time. 8:03am. Owen should definitely be in by now.

 

His mind immediately reeled to action. He slipped into his chair with a frown, throwing his coat and scarf over the back of it as he did. He leant onto his desk, chin resting in his hands, so as to not lean back on his wet clothes and to try and formulate his thoughts. Any other time he wouldn’t have given the situation another thought. Anyone, even those as punctual as Owen, can be late after all. But all things considered and especially after the incident last night, Vincent couldn’t help but worry. 

 

The report from last night was still fresh in his mind. It had come into his inbox just as he was about to head home for the night. It had been roughly an hour since Owen had rushed out roughly an hour earlier and the brief message gave him an overview of the situation.

 

It had simply read _“Break in at the 50th Avenue safehouse. Assigned agents alive and mostly unharmed. Assailant killed at the scene by Officer Mega. Cleanup crew en route, please stand by, as your services may be requested.”_

 

So, Vincent had waited. He stayed in the office for another two hours with Carys and Stephen, who were both worried sick. Eventually, they got the call that they were free to head home. Vincent had tried to call Owen, learn what was actually happening, but he was sent straight to his voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving one.

 

Owen was the one he was really worried about though. He looked so stressed out after he got that call, and he left in such a hurry that Vincent hardly had time to process it. This attack wouldn’t have been good for Mega’s nerves and Vincent knew what that man was capable of. It scared him to consider what he could do if he was touched the wrong way. He just hoped Owen was smart enough to stay aware. Vigilant. Should he…? 

 

Before he could even begin to consider it, loud footsteps coming from the hallway brought him back to reality. He turned to see the top of Owen’s head near where Stephen’s door should be, and a quick look confirmed that he was talking to Stephen, probably about the weather. He leapt to his feet but refrained from actually going to meet Owen; worried or not, he was still a professional.

 

“Good job you’re here, I was starting to get…” He stopped, taking in the scene before him. Holding back a smirk, he looked Owen dead in the eye before finishing his thought, “...worried.”

 

Owen Carvour, usually so sensible and appropriate, was wearing a turtleneck. It may have been raining but it wasn’t exactly  _ cold _ . All of his own layers had been for the rain alone, able to be shed once he was inside but  _ this _ ? The man was quite obviously trying to hide something and Vincent has a sneaking suspicion of what it was.

 

“That’s a nice turtleneck you’ve got there, Nate.” Vincent remarked, a slow grin creeping its way on his face. Owen looked up at him and squinted warily, already suspicious of his tone. “For June.”  

 

Tilting his head, Owen hummed and nodded. “And that’s a clear complexion you’ve got there, Vincent. Good thing nothing will happen to either.” 

 

“Aye. Good thing, that.” Vincent hummed, slowly getting back on his seat. He watched as Owen shrugged off his own coat and draped it over his chair, slicking back his hair once or twice to get the dampness out of it. Vincent took out his laptop from his bag and slowly started it up, folding it halfway so he can see Owen clearer. He folded his hands and placed them under his chin. "So, how's your husband?"

 

"Pretty fine, left him with our neighbor." Owen was taking out his own laptop and setting it up, too. With every movement, Vincent tried to watch for the collar to dip out of the way to show a bit of skin. Every time it almost did, it just wasn't the right angle. He tried to hide his frustration with passiveness.

 

"That's good to hear." He said simply, and wondered if he should just go for it. "Did anything happen besides the…"

 

“No.”

 

"Okay." Vincent nodded, clicked around his laptop, and brought up a tab of what he wanted to know. After scouring the details, he looked up at Owen and said. "You know sir, hickeys take a little over a week to heal."

 

If Owen stared at him then swore quietly, Vincent didn't say, and instead grinned broadly to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday came by rather quickly. Curt hadn’t gone to work in three days, mostly to recollect himself as well as help out the cleaners in rearranging their whole townhouse. Frankly speaking, he spent most of his days either moping around or cleaning up, and surprisingly doing some cleaning helped him to center himself a little. Curiously he wondered to himself, why didn’t he try to clean the safe houses in the Middle East whenever he was distressed? 

 

Oh right, because usually when he was in those safe houses he was either bedridden or busy. 

 

But anyway, most of the townhouse was cleaned up by now. All the glass has been brushed from the carpet, the floorboards scrubbed clean of blood, and walls fixed of bullet holes. Sometimes while he’s rearranging their decorations and furniture, Curt stared at the walls and traced over them, trying to feel the distinct difference between the old and the new. He never found any difference to them. 

 

Owen would always come home with food, not even bothering to ask Curt if he prepared anything in the kitchen. Not like he’d cook, anyway. Most of the dishes he can cook from muscle memory are Middle Eastern, and even then he doesn’t have half of the ingredients or energy needed to make them properly. That left Owen in charge of bringing home their next meal everyday, often stepping in with large plastic or paper bags of food. 

 

Every day, Owen would ask him during the meal about the tranquilizer. Every day, Curt gave him the same answer. 

 

Whether or not Owen believed him, he was never sure. 

 

Tonight held a different energy, though. Owen didn’t bring home any food, merely setting his canvas bag aside and slipping into their bedroom. Curt was already dressed for what was to come, wearing a thick jacket to block out the cold of the weather. Owen changed out of his work clothes to something more casual, more relaxed. Curt only gave him a once over and a nod before stepping out of the townhouse, making one more check to ensure he left a food bowl for Agent. 

 

“How was work, sugar?” Curt asked, noncommittally, like the husband he’s supposed to be. 

 

“Mundane,” Owen replied, shrugging on his jacket and looking around. He extended his arm towards the sidewalk that awaited them. “Shall we, love?” 

 

They walked side by side. Curt clearly knew the city better than Owen did, mainly because he’s the one who lived in the country more than the latter. Stepping out of the townhouse after being inside it for three days was a bit surreal, especially since everything felt a touch different than before. It’s been a while since he actually paid attention to the world around him. New York had its own kind of glamour during the night, and part of that was its hectic streets and bright city lights. The lights had that allure that would keep its citizens in a state of awareness, not too awake to actually notice anything, and not too asleep that they are mindless.

 

He did most of the leading and Owen let him. Walking around was nice. Being left to roam around without the confines of rooms was nice. Curt was mostly working on muscle memory as he went through the city, cutting across sidewalks and making his way down paths with Owen just a step or two away. 

 

He knew where he was going. As they turned down a certain path, he can already tell that Owen had his hunches about where they were going. He turned to see that he was still following him, taking in the road around them, before looking at Curt. His face was that of confusion. “I thought we agreed we’re going to Narc’s first.” 

 

Curt paused and fully turned himself to Owen. The street they were on was filled with frenetic energy, a road full of restaurants and cafes for New Yorkers to linger in. Everywhere around them people were chatting and laughing with each other, either in line for a table at a restaurant or eating with each other. Curt could just feel their closeness to where he wanted to be, some form of honing beacon that told him that he was getting warmer and warmer. 

 

Wednesday was a good day for those in the intelligence community. Hump day meant there was an influx of people in the Grey Areas, not too many that it would be teeming with them, but enough that anyone needed for anything could be spotted in the crowd. This was why they decided to venture out in the middle of the week, why they decided to go then and not any other time. 

 

“We didn’t agree on anything.” Curt shrugged simply. That was the truth, anyway. They didn’t tell each other where to go first. Owen only gave him a judging frown as he continued, slipping his fists in his pockets. “I have an associate who’s stationed there. We can talk to her.” 

 

Whether or not Owen was irritated with him, he wasn’t sure. He spun on his heel and started his way through the sidewalk once more, stiffening his shoulders to the breeze of cool air that came his way. The first twinges of pain shot up his chest, reminding him of which scars would ache first, and he pulled the jacket around his torso a little tighter. 

 

There was a bit of silence, a moment to think to himself, before he heard Owen catching up to him, quiet tapping of boots hitting the pavement before he emerged right next to Curt. He was definitely warm. Curt fought back the urge to lean into him.

 

“How do you suppose we get in, hm?” They were a few feet away from the entrance. The entrance to the first Grey Area they were gonna go to was through a short alleyway between a Persian restaurant and a record shop. Practically anyone can walk past it except those actively searching for it. “We don’t exactly classify or identify as a female.” 

 

“Relax, I got this.” Curt brushed him off and kept walking, dipping into the alleyway once he got there. The pathway was hardly lit, rather dank and stinky if he were to be asked, and he forced himself to hold his sleeve up to his face to keep the stench from filling his nose. Owen quickly followed behind him, murmuring his sentiments about this being a bad idea, before they got to the end of the alleyway.

 

There was a little pathway to the side that descended to a rusty metal door at the end. This part of the alleyway was already dark. Most of the city lights couldn’t reach this part of the path, and probably for a good reason. From where they both stood, Curt can see the dark shadow of a dark-skinned woman, thick and burly, torso wrapped in a tight looking leather jacket and tight jeans. She seemed to be smoking a cigarette between her fingers, the light at the butt of it the only thing illuminating her face. Her eyes held secrets in them, danger. 

 

For some reason, she reminded him of Eli.

 

“Scram.” Her voice, dark and billowing, yelled from below the staircase. She righted herself from leaning on the wall and stood before the door, blocking either of them from seeing the little light that streamed through it. She puffed on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke out. Curt watched as it scattered in the air and disappeared with the wind. “Y’all are in the wrong side of town. If you’re looking for some fun, the gay bars are a few roads down.” 

 

“Oh no, we’re not looking for fun.” Curt called out from above the staircase, trying to sound as casual as possible. His partner, however, had other ideas. He nudged Owen when he noticed how tight his shoulders were, how his fingers twitched to move towards something under his jacket. When he gave Curt a dry look, he merely took his hand in his own and squeezed it, both to keep him from moving and to reassure him. “I’m looking for someone, you might know her.” 

 

The woman merely narrowed her eyes and shifted her hand to grab the gun behind her back. Owen squeezed his hand. Her gaze was threatening. “Choose your next words carefully.” 

 

Curt immediately raised his hands up in mock surrender, reluctantly letting go of Owen’s other hand. He had something between his palm and his thumb, a shiny little thing he’s been nudging around his pocket since they started walking to the place. Tatiana said he may need it one of these days to step into ash zones, a female-exclusive establishment in the Grey Area system, and now was the day he could finally use it. He turned his hand and flicked the thing through the air, watching it sail to the waiting hand of the woman.

 

She held it up to the light. It was an ordinary challenge coin, a mundane thing usually used by many members of the military and law enforcement agencies around the world. He can see it clearly now, the image of the goddess Persephone with a doe-eyed deer on one side and flowers on the other. He knew she was examining the other side of the coin, the one where the same goddess sat on a throne in the eternal drudgery of the underworld with her dear pet Cerberus on her lap. 

 

It was the challenge coin for the Virago. 

 

Finally, with a huff, she tossed it back to him and stepped aside, opening the door with a grunt. Her glare was acidic from across the space between them, but he paid no mind to it. Curt turned briefly to Owen to see him gaping at what just happened. Good for him. He kept back his smile as he took Owen’s hand and tugged him down the staircase. They descended and he watched as the New York stars disappeared from his view.  

 

“Thank you,” He said, good-naturedly, at the glowering woman as they walked by. 

 

The hallway they were faced with was long, dimly lit, and rather narrow. It reeked eerily of coolant and a few bitter notes of alcohol, with soft music lilting from the door at the end of it. Fluorescent lights overhead blinked and flickered with its own distinctive rhythm, giving the place a haze of lucidness only paralleled by a scene of a dream. 

 

Once the door locked behind them, Owen pulled their joined hands up and took the challenge coin from it. He held it up to the dim lighting of the narrow doorway ahead of him, near hissing with both surprise and confusion. “Now, pray tell, love, how the  _ fuck  _ did you get a challenge coin to this place?” 

 

Curt merely stepped back from Owen, watching as he ran his finger over the challenge coin. It was an old gift from Tatiana, something given to him a few months or so before he was deployed to the Middle East. He remembered his own glee when he held it for the first time with such fragility, as if he was holding a baby and not solid metal. The way it caught the light sometimes soothed him during the long hours he spent lying on a rickety couch somewhere in Iraq. Eyeing its every curve and turn was a source of peace. 

 

Now, when he’s asked about it? He can do nothing but shrug. “Friend.” 

 

If Owen had anything else to say, he said nothing more. Curt started his way down the hallway, listening for the way the walls gently bounced the noise off of it. It was an eternal echo chamber of sound, locked in its own bubble of shifts and tones, and Curt was in the middle of all of it. He can hear everything here: the soft humming of music, the shift of his own feet, and the quick steps of Owen right behind him. Hell, he can hear the soft breeze a little. 

 

Stepping into Virago was an… experience, to say the least. It reminded him of the parlors of those fancy five-star restaurants, with wood panelling on the walls and a large fireplace set to the side. The floor was darkened wood that clicked with every step he took, and the seats were plush leather that gleamed dully under the lighting. A rich collection of liquors were kept behind glass cases behind a large bar counter, with a blonde bartender taking care of the drinks. The Virago was large, larger than he thought.

 

Oh, and everyone was looking at him. Huh, so this must be what Barb feels whenever she walks into a staff meeting. 

 

Nonchalant, Curt strode over to the bar counter as if nothing was wrong with the current set up. He pointedly ignored the multitudes of eyes staring at him and his partner as they sat on the barstools, patiently tapping the coin on the counter. The bartender had caught his eye since the moment he stepped in, and was currently watching him while pouring a cocktail for a customer across the counter. It took her a moment, but she made her way over, near gliding over the floorboards to settle gracefully in front of him. 

 

“Curt Mega, Owen Carvour,” Accent indiscernible. She dyed her hair a shade brighter than her usual blonde, but she was still the same Lucielle who ran the place. Her lips were curved in a polite, near teasing smile, “Or is it Mr. and Mr. Carter? Sorry, hard to keep up with the chit chat lately.” 

 

Curt smiled back just as politely, “Whatever you care to call us, Lucielle.” 

 

“Well,” She tilted her head and laughed, “Good to see you boys in my Virago.”  

 

The Virago. It was an esteemed establishment founded by Lucielle about three or so years ago. It was found just in the heart of New York City, right under its city glamor and grime and hidden from sight. It quickly became one of the most well-known ash zones for women in the Americas, the best place to go when one needed to step away from the spy game and take time for the self. Given the rules of the ash zones, no man can step in Virago, except those lucky enough to have the challenge coin that’ll allow them in. 

 

Tonight, that happened to be the both of them.

 

“The Virago’s as magnificent as they say it is,” Owen said, smile wide and eyes near crinkling in the corners. Curt knew that smile. It was tight, restrained. Owen did not like the environment he was in. It was almost like Curt could watch him squirm in his seat. That would be a sight. “Quite the establishment, Lucielle.” 

 

“Thank you! I imagine you’re not here to see little old me, but I’m afraid your friend’s not around tonight.” Bummer. Curt almost forgot that Tatiana left to take a job over in Canada. Just as he thought that he was gonna get to see her. Ah well, it would be best to just send a message to her about it. Curt tried not to appear dejected as Lucielle continued, whipping her hands about as she spoke. “Montreal, I believe.” 

 

“She mentioned,” Curt hummed and looked around. There were still eyes on them, some women giving them dry looks from across the room. Every now and then people would dart their gaze at them before whispering to each other. Some of those gazes held threats. Curt knew at least half of the women in the room. He knew that they were all either renowned for their skills in the field or wanted in multiple countries. He turned back to Lucielle and offer her his best smile. “Lucielle, between you and me? I don’t think men should be allowed in ash zones, at all.”

 

“Careful with those words, Mega,” Coy, she tilted her head and grinned. “Speak any louder and the girls would hear.” 

 

“I’m sure they already have, so we best be on our merry way.” Owen piped up next to him, prompting Curt to turn to him. His crooked jaw was screwed tight, gaze fixed on Lucielle as if turning to Curt would be too much at the moment. He’s never seen a man so on edge about being in an ash zone, as if he was squirming underneath all the eyes fixated on them. He wanted to reach a hand over for comfort, but restrained himself. No, mission first. “But, before we go off, would you happen to know of any hits lately, particularly on us?” 

 

She merely stared at them. For a moment Curt thought something was wrong before she started laughing, a light and breathy little thing. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and tilted her head back, eyes fluttering closed before she calmed down and came to. Lucielle’s eyes were twinkling bright as she looked at him, almost as if what Owen said was supposed to be funny. “Again, I don’t listen to the chit chat lately.” 

 

Owen seemed to have something to say before he could think of something, leaning on the counter with a near accusatory tone on his lips. “But you seem to know enough to know that Curt and I are  _ married _ .” 

 

“Only because I heard of the attack two days ago,” Lucielle shrugged innocently. Curt looked away from Owen as images flashed of the attack a few days ago. They blurred together, he doesn’t even know what he did that day, and at this point he was too afraid to ask for specific details under the guise of making sure she had her facts straight. “If you want more information, Narc or Zanzi are your best bets.” 

 

“Funny, we were just on our way to Narc’s.” Owen was tugging at his arm now, nearly pulling him out of his seat as he himself stood. The sudden passage of time between the mention of the attack and then, and everything was just so jarring as he got on his feet. “Nice to meet you Lucielle. Good night.” 

 

* * *

 

Narc’s was a complete opposite to what the Virago was, all things considered. It was a few blocks away from the underground site of the latter, far more overt, and posed as a loud and vibrant night club for New Yorkers. Music blared from overhead speakers and boomed into the streets outside, where a long line of clubbers were waiting behind neon pink security ropes. Lights bounced off of surfaces in a spectacle of colors, streaming out of the closed doors and windows with the promise of some evening fun. The bouncer, a large, rather squarish man, let them in without question, not even looking Curt and Owen in the eye as they walked past the ropes. 

 

Inside was far louder, though that is to be expected of a standard night club. Despite the fact that it was only the middle of the week, it was teeming with partygoers and patrons who flooded to its twin bar counters and mosh pit. Dancers congregated to the dance floor to briefly forget about their worries and struggles, losing themselves to the rhythm of the DJ booth's beat. Alcoves of tables were cordoned off to groups of people, tables covered in shot glasses and beer bottles. Spotlights overhead were a technicolor of vibrant movement, flashing multiple colors and moving all over the place in its own kind of frenzy. 

 

Now this was Owen’s element, right here: the noise and haze of the night club, the hollering of partygoers, the hard bass. He was in control of this situation, despite its hecticness and blaring noises. It was far easier to manage than the ticking time bomb that was Virago earlier. 

 

Curt, meanwhile, wasn't exactly coping so well. Before going in he pulled Owen aside, sternly warning him that he wasn't "gonna say shit in there, so don't expect him to ask questions" while fitting some black hearing aids into his ears. It took Owen a second too long to realize those were special aids designed by Carys a few years ago, specially made to cancel out noise rather than amplify it for the hard of hearing. He simply nodded and continued on with the path, ignoring how stony his partner seemed after.

 

Right now said partner was draining a beer bottle. Owen flicked his eyes back to the person across from them, an Israeli man with slightly yellowed teeth and a finely made beard. He was about his age, perhaps a year or two younger, with happy crinkles at the corners of his eyes and lips. He was smoking a cigarette and earlier offered one to Owen, but he politely declined. He had a job to do. He was not in the night club for some fun. 

 

"Narc," The industry called him that for two reasons: he seemed to know everything that was happening and he always had the best deals on chemical ingredients and serums. Narc dominated the black market in underground medicine and poisons, and he made a handsome living by simply talking to someone and handing one of his many bottles over. Owen glared steely across the table and took a deep breath, "What's Chimera been up to lately?" 

 

Puffing out a slow stream of smoke from his lips, Narc laughed and shook his head. His eyes gleamed with a beadiness he'd attribute to crows, "Carvour, quite on the nose about all this, are you?"

 

He squinted, "I don't have all evening, you know."

 

Owen flicked his eyes to Curt for a moment. He was staring fixedly at Narc, eyes trained on him as if the slightest movement would have him surging forward with whatever weapon was on his body. He could see how tightly wounded his partner was, how bothered he was by the current arrangement. He had a vice grip on the beer bottle as if it was the only thing keeping him there. 

 

"Of course, you never really stay for long," Narc tilted his head back and laughed, a deep rumble that boomed as loudly as the music about them. Owen turned away to look at something else, checking his phone for any updates and messages. When he turned his hand just a little, he caught the way his wedding band reflected the light. "I just expected a little foreplay, you know? Small talk and all that jazz."

 

"I don't feel like it at the moment, but I'll inform you when I do." Owen said dryly and leaned back, "Now, Chimera."

 

"That's a deep underground organization, Ow-y. Even if I knew shit I'd be a little wary of its validity," Narc shrugged before flicking his eyes at Curt's direction. The way he smirked as Curt tensed told him too much of what he had to say next, "But I have heard that they're very aware of you and your partner's presence in Manhattan. I think they put a bounty out for him, too."

 

Ignoring the way his stomach dropped with that revelation, he prodded forward, adjusting the way he sat. "Price?" 

 

Narc raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not my story to tell." 

 

"Damn it, Narc, I'm not here to play games." Owen bit, annoyed with the situation, slamming his fist on the table. Curt quietly lifted his beer bottle from it as his fist made impact. "I just had a man walk into our townhouse and attempt to kill my  _ partner _ , for God's sake. I could have lost him."

 

"But you didn't," Narc drawled, eyebrow raised in defiance. "Because your partner is a good boy, isn't he?" 

 

Owen stood from the table, effectively shaking Curt from whatever trance he was in. His nostrils flared with unrestrained anger as he glowered daggers at Narc, who gracefully stood from his own seat. Curt seemed to understand the energy and excused himself, probably to get himself another beer. The two men stood across each other in silence, the club's blaring music in the background near deafening. 

 

"A word of advice, agent." Narc took a drag from his cigarette, finally setting it down on the ashtray between them. "Keep that bleeding heart of yours under lock and key. I could see it in your eyes, Carvour. I can already tell it'll shatter once you take off those rose-colored glasses you’ve got on."

 

Owen narrowed his eyes, "Curt wouldn't break my heart."

 

Narc laughed, "Ah, whatever helps you sleep with him at night."

 

Owen turned and started making his way through the maze of alcoves and waitresses. The flurry of the night club pounded incessantly against his temples, warning him of an impending headache after speaking to the Israeli man. Curt was waiting by the bar, holding a piña colada in one hand and a shot glass in another. He looked passive, maybe a little calmer. He handed Owen the former as he took down the shot in one gulp. 

 

"Thanks," Owen managed to say before taking a sip, ignoring whatever thoughts he had as he flicked his eyes to Curt. Chimera hitmen are usually some of the best in the business, and few could match their strength or versatility. If Curt was good enough to take down one of them, Owen wondered, just how good was he in combat? 

 

He thought of their first night together, the way Curt's hands gripped his throat. 

 

Owen shook the thought away and took a long sip from his drink. 

 

* * *

The warm spray of the shower after being out in the Manhattan cool was a good thing to come home to. The drink Owen had earlier still sat warmly in his stomach, and he knew for sure that it wouldn’t cause him any sort of hangover the next day when he has to report to work. Cleaning up the grime of the day was a simple task, one he can do without much thought about what had to be done next.

 

So he let his mind wander, his thoughts go about. Owen left the door unlocked in case Curt needed to brush his teeth, seeing as he left the man to his lonesome back in their bedroom. The walk back to 50th Avenue was a quick one, both of them quiet, shoulders brushing throughout the way home. At some point Curt bemoaned the fact that he was already a little sleepy, probably from all of the alcohol, and Owen merely reassured him that they were almost there and that he should wait a little longer. 

 

Narc’s words remained painted over the back of his eyes, haunting him in a way that irked Owen. Everyone gave off the same warnings, the same wariness towards Curt, and it irritated him. They hardly even knew the man to judge him. They hardly know about what their  _ relationship _ is like as partners, so who are they to give him advice on how to take care of his friend? They were both rather formidable in the field, maybe in some definitions dangerous, but Curt wasn’t dangerous enough to pose a threat to Owen. He was kind, polite, and would never dare to hurt him on purpose.

 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Narc meant. He never really paid close attention to how Curt did the job whenever they were out in the field so long as it meant that the job would be done at the end of the day. He knew that the man had skill, a certain technique, but beyond that he never took notice. Curt was efficient and effective, a man to rely on, a good partner. 

 

Still. Still something twisted Owen’s stomach about him.

 

“Nate?” He snapped out of his reverie to clamor gracelessly for the soap bar that was suddenly slipping from his fingertips. Owen ignored the bright red that was obviously skittering over his cheeks to peep out of the shower curtains, finding himself face-to-face with Curt. The latter’s eyes were rather unfocused, a touch sleepy, and his short hair was ruffled from the wind earlier.

 

Owen found the urge to speak, “Y-Yeah?” 

 

“I forgot to tell you earlier that we were out of milk.” Curt crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. Owen watched the way those biceps tightened around the short sleeves of his shirt, and willed away the blood that was rushing southward. His lips twitched forward as he spoke, the curve of his lips dipping in a near adorable way. “Should’ve gotten some while we were out.” 

 

“Just put it on my phone, love.” Owen smiled and tilted his head, “I’ll get us some when I go out tomorrow.” 

 

For a moment Curt just stared at him, and he wondered if there was something wrong before he nodded slowly, yawned, and stretched. The barest of skin popped from underneath the hem of his shirt to reveal taut muscles and the barest of scar tissue. “Alright, night Nate.” 

 

Owen watched as Curt turned around, shuffling lazily back to bed and flopping onto it. Owen’s heart swelled knowing that Curt wanted to go to bed with him, relieved that he didn’t have to ask for him to stay. He took a moment to watch as his chest rose and fell, breathing becoming deeper, before Curt eventually fell asleep. He eyed the little skin he can see of Curt, the few nicks from old wounds on his arms and calves. Owen frowned when he noticed the barest of ink peeking from Curt’s waistband, indiscernible from where he stood. 

 

Odd. 

 

“Night, Nick.” Owen murmured once more, before drawing the curtains back and returning to his shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man this is gonna be a doozy: 
> 
> \- The official word count is 12,369! We got no clue how it got there. We honestly don't.  
> \- The song of this chapter is Outside by TENDER. It's a really good song that I'd associate with earlier drafts of Narc's.  
> \- The apple juice box is a reference to a roleplay scene done within the SAF server. If any of y'all in the server are reading this, you'll want to thank Dino and Mae for it.  
> \- The washing of blood is a parallel to an earlier set up where Owen shaved Curt clean after having a beard for so long. It's also a reference to religious symbolism, where it typically calls for clean action, forgiveness, and cleaning of sin. Positioning of characters for this adds in intimacy to the whole setup, somewhat parallels to the washing of feet in Christian iconography.  
> \- The kissing scene was entirely new in the whole plotline, which is probably why this chapter took longer than usual!  
> \- Another 5+1 moment here where Curt dropped the words on Owen, poor man.  
> \- As always, we have the MKO dabblings here and there. We see you, MKO squad. We see you.  
> \- It's vaguely alluded that Dick Big frequents the grey areas (Does he know they are called that? No. He is just a rootin' tootin' cowboy out and about big ol' Manhattan trying to solve a case ala Sherlock)  
> \- Apparently while writing I accidentally quoted Harry Potter (and please note that I am hardly well-versed in its lore), hence that little dialogue line from good ol' Dick Big!  
> \- The Virago and Narc's are past mentioned grey areas, both of which come from my semi-original verse. The Virago is an example of an ash zone, which is an exclusively female establishment. I'd give out my social commentary about the implications of grey areas to the inner workings of the industry's society but that would be better for another day.  
> \- The remark about Barb walking into a staff meeting is a reference to the gender disparity in the STEM field.   
> \- Oh, here we go. Challenge coins are a thing in military culture mainly as a boost of morale and dorkiness. I'd go off about the rules and lore concerning it but here are the few things worth knowing: it's mainly a collecting thing, most of the time for proving your legitimacy as a member of a certain unit, and a way of interacting with other units of the military and law enforcement. Here, the challenge coin is used to grant them passage into an ash zone.  
> \- Tapping a challenge coin on a surface is a serious call for challenge, and a bold move in Curt's part. Curt Mega is out here fucking challenging these women (who don't need a challenge coin to prove their need to be in the establishment) to fucking challenge his legitimacy.  
> \- Let's talk about the two of them in their element. See, both of them were comfortable in both of the spaces they explored simply because they were in control of the situation. We'd expect their lives to be complex, filled with curve balls left and right, henceforth some kind of paranoia would come out of that. 
> 
> Curt's in his element in Virago for that, but beyond that, it's because he's surrounded by respectable women. While I'm not saying Owen doesn't know how to respect them, we have to take into consideration that all the key people in Curt's life by far are women: mother, Cynthia, Tatiana, Barb, Simmons. He's known comfort in these female figures in his life. He finds comfort around women like them, doesn't even seem bothered by them. 
> 
> Owen, meanwhile, is at his prime at Narc's because despite the hectic chaos of the atmosphere, he is still in control of the situation. He's built himself the network to ensure that all safety nets can be deployed should shit go down at that moment. He has the connections and the confidence to command the room should he wish to, in any way he wanted, and bend the rules to his will should he want it to. 
> 
> Again, neither would be in their element in the other's locations for various reasons. Owen has no control over what happens in Virago, and Curt cannot manage all the sensory inputs of Narc's. That's why he leans towards alcohol at the first shot possible: to stave off his nerves. Either are a balance to the other and jesus fuck I hope I relayed that properly.


	10. the coldest kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey.
> 
> I'm back.
> 
> SO I have a lot of explaining to do and I will do that in the notes later but for now, it is great to be back! God I just missed working on this project and while I did teeny tiny bits of it during the impromptu break, it is just so great to be back! I missed y'all and I know y'all missed this. Y'all missed my tomfuckery. You better be ready.
> 
> I give my love to Cailin, Lilly, and Percy. Y'all handle my emotional barrage like fucking champs, I tell you. 
> 
> As always, we hope you enjoy, and please leave your comments and kudos!
> 
> TRIGGERS: Minor drug use, minor depiction of torture.

The 50th Avenue house buzzed with life the next evening. Whatever they learned the other night was set aside for the night, as it was purely a social function and not a time for work. Curt and Owen had finally seen it fit to hold a housewarming party, although it was a little late into their residence to call it a proper one. Eli had come over to represent the Bread & Brew team while the entirety of Owen’s MI6 team dropped by. 

 

The “party” (Curt rolled his eyes at the word used) was in full swing, with everyone up and about their living room. Owen watched from where he stood by the main hallway, eyeing the scene before him with great interest. He had a glass of red in his hand and a small gift box in the other, something Carys shoved into his hand the moment she stepped in with the rest of the team. He took a sip from his drink and surveyed the room, trying to see if anything interesting was happening for him to swoop into.

 

Work went fine, thank you for asking. Nothing much was done. He and the team talked about what he gathered in the Grey Areas, casually skirting through the details and trying not to become too into it. Vincent and Stephen seemed surprised to hear that he somehow managed to get safe passage into the Virago. Carys looked positively shocked and squeaked about wanting to go there sometime, but having no company to go with. When he was asked about how Narc was doing, Owen tried his damned hardest not to talk about the rudeness he encountered with the man. 

 

Beyond that, work was rather bland. He dropped by the Bread & Brew earlier for lunch and sat down with Curt, kindly excusing him from work so they can spend time together. Curt seemed rather light, if not a little chirpy, but was sad to know that neither Pim nor Xander would be around for the celebration. Ah well, Owen tried to reason with him, that it just meant that later would be an adult’s affair, and that would mean letting out the booze for the evening. 

 

That seemed to put a smile on Curt’s face.  

 

“Don’t be absurd! 15 minutes is for medium heat, _medium heat Vincent!_ You got the stove up to high heat now so it’s obviously gonna be done faster.” Owen turned his attention to Carys and Vincent, who were currently stationed at the kitchen with dinner. The pair insisted on making the meal, reasoning that the couple needed some time with their guests. Owen tried to counter with the fact that they too were his guests. Those words fell on deaf (for one of them, literally) ears. 

 

Currently, the argument seemed to be about cooking the noodles. The pair stood next to each other, Carys holding the box of noodles and examining the instructions on the back, while Vincent was scrutinizing an article on his phone. Both were still in their work clothes, with Vincent wearing one of his forest green dress shirts that went well with his eyes, and Carys in a jumpsuit she apparently found while out in the thrift shops. 

 

“Alright, alright, so we’ll just bring it down to medium, calm yourself.” Vincent flicked his hands in the air dismissively, snorting as he shook his head exasperatedly. Owen eyed the can of Guinness perched on the counter next to the bottle of wine, and watched as Carys poured herself another glass only to drain it just as quickly. Vincent’s boldness to take the shitty American Guinness Curt bought in the supermarket earlier never ceased to amaze him. Owen held back a chuckle as he observed Vincent flick the dials on one of his hearing aides, setting them a bit lower as Carys started speaking.

 

“Of course we will!” Carys squeaked, peering at the stove with a kind of scrutiny Owen thought she’d reserve for her laboratory back in the Consulate. He continued watching the scene with interest, holding back a chuckle as he noticed Agent pawing at the ankle of Carys’ pant leg. After a moment she clicked her tongue, murmuring something under her breath, before speaking louder in English. “Now that’s just too low.” 

 

“I only brought it down by a wee bit, Carys—” Seemingly realizing who their audience was, Vincent flicked his eyes to Owen and nodded, words slipping away into a greeting. Carys quickly got his attention back as she cursed loudly in Welsh, scrambling to grab the pasta scoop and stir the noodles. She turned to him and continued scolding him in the same language, prompting Vincent to reply in his native Gaelic. The kitchen devolved into a mix of both languages as they argued unceasingly, much to the chagrin of Owen.

 

So he turned his attention elsewhere. He was about to step into the living room when he found himself face to face with Stephen, who seemingly materialized out of nowhere. He quickly stepped back and tried not to gasp in surprise, balancing himself as his glass of wine sloshed precariously in his grip. 

 

“Owen!” Stephen said just as Owen said the same thing, except Stephen’s name. They both stepped away from each other and dusted themselves of any invisible grains on their clothes. Stephen, a few years younger than Owen, was his on-site handler, to some extent Daniels’ proxy seeing as he’s physically in New York. He was a mostly kind fellow, polite to him during briefings and everything in between. He always seemed attentive of what Owen needed the most, especially when he’s not in familiar territory. “I was just looking for you.” 

 

“Stephen, sorry for surprising you there,” Owen slipped out an easy smile and placed his hand on Stephen’s shoulder to steady him. The younger man was grateful for the gesture, nodding graciously and wrapping an arm around Owen’s waist. They slowly ambled down the hallway, Stephen tipping his glass back into his lips. Seeing his on-site handler being a little lax was a pleasant sight, especially when the man was usually so busy and wrapped up in all the work demanded of him. “What do you need, hm?”  

 

“I was thinking of chatting about something outside, if you don’t mind.” Stephen smiled lopsidedly and tilted his head to him. “It’s about work, my bad, but it’s of importance.” 

 

“Sure, of course!” Owen brightened and ushered them to the door. He peeked into the living room to see Curt, who was watching another documentary about wildlife. When he spotted the two of them walking by, he tilted his drink up and waved at them, a relaxed smile spreading on his lips.

 

God, what he’d do to see that smile more often. 

 

They stepped onto the porch. The evening sky twinkled with stars that fought through the city haze, intermingled with the blinking lights of distant satellite towers and airplanes. As expected, the nightlife of New York was loud and boisterous, filled with a kind of mega city white noise expected of the place. The air was perfectly cool, a good exchange for the warmth of earlier, and it ruffled Owen’s hair as he shut the door behind him.

 

Eli was already there, a cigarette tightly held between his lips and eyebrows knitted in an even tighter frown. He really didn’t match the profile of bakery owner with his jean jacket and boots, his ruggedness making him look more like a biker. Though that might be the point: ex-criminals just love taking unlikely retirement plans to throw off nosy people. Owen was rather suspicious of him and his establishment. 

 

“You took your sweet time,” Eli muttered, flicking the butt’s ashes away. He nodded at Stephen as he leaned against the wall, “What, had to talk to the Queen or something before you went over here?” 

 

Owen stiffened, a sudden need to defend his coworker overcoming him. 

 

“Well he got me here,” Owen said, taking a step closer and narrowing his eyes. Eli was not an unfamiliar name to him, in fact, he’s heard it a lot of times before and during this whole mission. The man had some kind of notoriety in the criminal underworld and intelligence community, and he looked just as imposing and threatening as he was said to be. Nonetheless, Owen persisted and subtly challenged him with a glare. “So what seems to be the problem?”

 

Eli held up is hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “You’d do well not to bite the heads off of your allies, Carvour. We’re on the same side. A little bit of trust wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“You talk about trust, yet that doesn’t seem to extend to your own men. Why isn’t Curt here?” It took every ounce of him not to growl and grit his teeth. God, why does no one _trust_ him? Owen knew Curt; he knew him pretty damn well. That man was practically his best friend. He was the man who wouldn’t think twice to fling himself in front of an innocent passerby, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone down if it was necessary. He was the idiot drunk who giggled at the slightest brush to the back of his ears, the same man who would hold his hand and squeeze it when Owen felt the slightest bit scared. Curt was the man he could trust his life with again and again, and he would always give his work due justice.

 

Hell, he trusts the man with his fucking _heart_ , and he would trust him again without skipping a beat.

 

“If you stopped trying to glare a hole through my skull for five fucking minutes,” Eli made a show of taking the cigarette out of his lips, the curl of smoke blurring his face for a moment, dropping it to the ground and grounding out its flame with his heel. He didn’t even break eye contact as he continued. “We’d be able to tell you.”

 

“Owen, it’s about Curt and his safety.” Stephen tried to explain, piping up beside him. 

 

Immediately, his mind clicked to concern. For a moment his shoulders slackened as he asked, “Why? What’s happened?”

 

It’s only been a few days since the incident that partially wrecked the 50th Avenue safehouse. Repairs have already been made by the cleaners, and while their home looked just like it did before, the tension of another attack happening kept them on the edge. Curt jumped at the slightest sudden movement. He hardly sat down without the assurance of a weapon near him. The only plus side to all of this was that Owen found the excuse to get Curt to sleep with him in bed. 

 

Every now and then Owen would catch a black car waiting by the sidewalk whenever he stepped out to get to the Consulate. He’d stare down the driver’s window to try and see who it was, and it would roll down to reveal the same bald, blank stare of an agent. Sometimes his passenger’s seat would be empty. Sometimes it would have a dark-skinned lady in a hijab.

 

“It’s not so much what _has_ happened as it is what _will._ ” Eli crossed his arms and cleared his throat, tilting his head to look Owen square in the eye. He was a few inches taller, and Owen had to tilt his head a little to look at him. It was only now that he noticed that the man had a tiny scar running over his nose bridge, “Mega is still in danger.” 

 

Well, that’s obvious. Not much was known from their visits around the Grey Areas, and no other information has been found in other informants. Owen fought the urge to huff as he crossed his own arms in finality, leaning against the door to keep anyone from stepping into their conversation. 

 

“After the incident at the start of the week, it has become clear that Curt’s security is a major issue,” Stephen leaned on the side of the wall, looking too casual for Owen’s taste. There was an unreadable expression on his face, neither a frown or a smile. Serious talk. Owen didn’t think it suited the man. “I had to talk to Directors Daniels and Houston about this. We need to ensure the best precautions will be taken.”

 

Owen bristled, one fist tightening at his side. He knew the implication of those words, no matter how soft Stephen tried to keep his expression. He spoke slowly, “Are you saying I didn’t look out for him? That the attack was somehow _my_ fault?” 

 

Owen fought to keep his voice from wavering, from keeping it from lilting towards something more… unpleasant. He hoped the two men interpreted his shift in body language as anger rather than what’s really ticking him off. It was such a rarity for him to have such an outburst, in public of all times, that he can’t seem to remember a time when he was. Sure, he was definitely offended by the suggestion that he was to blame for what happened to Curt. He could keep it under wraps if needed, for the sake of himself and his partner, but he is going to defend himself by their insinuations. No, he did nothing wrong. Everything just went tits up.  

 

Stephen held up his hands in surrender, “Owen, I have no doubt that you will defend Curt to the best of your abilities—“

 

“—but are your abilities good enough to keep our operative safe?” Eli interjected, stepping forward and jabbing his finger into Owen’s chest. His large figure loomed over Owen as they made eye contact, a silent challenge for him to do something about the situation. 

 

He did. Owen slapped Eli’s hand away from his chest, clear disgust in his features as he stepped back and glowered, “I would give my life for him.”

 

“Not gonna cut it.”

 

“Well then what do you _want_ from me?”

 

Stephen and Eli shared a look. There had to be some kind of comedic irony to this whole thing. There they were: a short, thin, and well-groomed handler standing next to a tall, thickly built, brutish ex-mercenary. The humor wasn't lost in Owen as he watched them for a moment before their eyes were back on him. 

 

“We want both of you to come out on the other side of a successful mission.” Stephen’s eyes reflected worry and concern, the kind of look Daniels would give him whenever she means well but decided to make a dickheaded decision on his behalf. What was it with handlers and having that expression? It was mildly irritating. “Preferably without wasting this mission’s whole budget on fixing you or the house up every other week.”

 

Owen took a step closer at Stephen and narrowed his eyes at him, a silent dare for him to take back what he just said. “Well then why not assign him more protection, _proper_ protection?”

 

Now that he thought about it, he shouldn’t pick a fight with Stephen. He was merely relaying what the higher ups had to say about the whole situation, the ground man there to make sure Owen followed through with the mission. They were both on equal footing here: pawns to the overall scheme of the mission. If he had a bone to pick it would be with Cynthia Houston, and to an extent Victoria Daniels.

 

Because it irritated him, that of the two of them, Curt was the one at risk in this whole mission. He was the one exposed to most of the heavy work of the mission, the one who was actually on the field. Curt was the one who would drive to the target’s wife’s bodega twice a week, who got to interact with the people, and the one who could easily be recognized by Chimera agents. Beyond that, he’s still raw and unstable (but Owen would never say that out loud) from what he’s been through in the past four years. He just got back from the Middle East for Christ’s sake. Why he’s only getting minimal help was beyond Owen, and that just ticked him off. 

 

“Look, Carvour, we can’t have your partner surrounded by an armed guard 24/7,” Owen fought back the urge to snort as Eli spoke. It was rich hearing that from a man who used to kill for a living, with a rumored kill count the size of a small country. From where Owen was standing, Curt _did_ have someone guarding his 6 at all times in the bakery, and that was in the form of some twisted angel that used to don the robes of Death himself. “Believe it or not, we have a cover to protect too.”

 

“This is up to you, Owen.” Stephen’s hand was on his shoulder, directing his attention back to him. The man was a few inches shorter, clearly younger, but he seemed to carry the worn out expression of a handler stretched thin by the onslaught of missions he has to manage. There were tired crinkles around his eyes that betrayed his actual age, and there was a small comforting smile on his lips as he continued. “Can we rely on you?”

 

He held his gaze. He thought of all the times he walked down the staircase to see Curt fast asleep on the couch, arm dangling off the edge with a few forgotten pillows. He thought of every instance he saw Curt lose focus as he was talking about work, and how he’d snap back into attention when Owen said his name. He conjured up the image of what he looked up crouched in their kitchen floor, sweaty and trembling, a mess of first aid equipment scattered around him with a single syringe in the palm of his hand.

 

And he thought of that kiss, seemingly ages ago, that quiet whine that begged him to never let go.  

 

Owen didn’t need to be asked twice.

 

“I’ll keep him — _and_ the mission — safe.” Owen said, and he meant it. “I promise.”

 

“ _Finally,_ ” Behind him, Eli sighed and shook his head, exasperated with how this talk went. Owen didn’t have the energy to turn around and glower at him as Stephen nodded in understanding and patted his back good-naturedly. “Thought it was gonna take all night for you to man up and do your job.”

 

Owen nodded his excuses to the other two as he stepped towards the door and opened it. They didn’t give him a second look as he slipped back into the townhouse, instantly welcomed with the warmth of the threshold. He took a moment to press his back against the back of the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, and trying so damn hard to blot out the muffled words he could hear from the other side of the door. 

 

Protect Curt. That’s better said than done. For one, he’s chained to his desk in the Consulate, and he’s sure Daniels and Houston would beat his ass if he dared to get out of it unless it was for reasonable purposes. Frequently checking his watch for Curt’s location and vitals would hardly mean anything. He only ever sees him in the safe house, so how was he supposed to protect him? Chimera was a beast, in every definition of the word, and Owen wasn’t sure if he could get to Curt on time like last time. 

 

But he made a promise to himself and to Stephen, and he will damn well execute it to the best of his abilities.

 

He slowly made his way back into where everyone else is, mostly because the two seemed to be arguing again. The pasta seemed to be going well, no burned smells whatsoever, and he could catch the first few notes of tomato sauce boiling happily in its pot in the kitchen. Whatever pleasantries he had were casted out of his mind as Vincent piped up, accent thick and angry. 

 

“If you _touch_ me I’ll… I will…”

 

“Your scrawny ass will do _what_ exactly?” 

 

Ah, leave it up to those two to escalate an argument about cooking to something about each other. Owen resisted his lips’ rogue urge to grin widely as he leaned against the entryway of the kitchen. The little back-and-forth they had earlier has now escalated into a shouting match, and a quick check confirmed that it’s distracted Curt from his evening documentary. He stared across the room to catch Curt also leaning against the other entryway, arms crossed, gaze focused. Relaxed. Not a furrow in his brow.  

 

“Well you’ll find out if you boil my fucking hearing aides!” His attention is back on Vincent, whose thick Irish accent was coming back to make an appearance as he spat out what could only be described as vitriol at Carys. It wasn’t exactly Vincent-like for him to blow his top, but then again, any knowledge he had about his personality is mildly outdated. He huffed as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, unaware of the audience they’ve gathered. “This is an unprovoked attack.”

 

With a sneer on her lip, she frowned and jabbed an accusing finger on his chest. “Oi! You threatened my tablet with a watery death, this is justified!”

 

“Oh gurn _up_ , Carys, you can’t compare those,” Vincent rolled his eyes and scoffed, “It’s not _my_ fault you can’t live without that thing.”

 

“And it’s not _mine_ that you can’t hear!”

 

He turned away from the scene unfolding to watch Curt’s expression. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he watched the duo, something alight in his eyes that reminded Owen of mischief. Was he reminiscing something? It was possible. Curt used to tell him stories about his partner for most of the four years in the Middle East, a Muslim woman whose name he couldn’t recall clearly. He could be remembering the times he had with her. 

 

It was just so… nice to see Curt just standing there casually. The thoughts of the conversation earlier melted away as he took everything into account. Curt dressed so casually when he feels homey, wearing a simple hoodie and joggers. His shoulders were not taut. He just seemed so _delighted_ to be there, so happy to be in the scene, and nothing could pull him away from what was happening. 

 

“Alright, kids, how about we talk this through like professionals?” That grin on Curt’s lips stretched as he straightened himself a little, standing a little taller. His eyes caught the light in a way that he could see the warm hazel of it, brilliant and glittering. “Over a drink, preferably, but I think one of you had one too many.”  


“Leave them be, Curt.” Owen laughed, mostly to himself, and when Curt’s eyes caught his, he swore to himself that they shone so brightly. 

 

* * *

 

Their guests left an hour or so after, and they exchanged pleasantries at the door before the house was filled with silence once more. The task of cleaning up the place was divided in two places: the living room and the kitchen. Since Curt spent more time in the former, he did the work of cleaning that. Owen decided to busy himself with dishes and returning all the stuff they took out of the cabinets. He sat the last dish down on the drying rack as a clatter of plastic came from the living room, followed by a tiny, petulant meow.

 

He turned to see the source of the ruckus. His partner was on the floor, a mess of DVDs surrounding him, with Agent carefully pawing over them like a curious creature on new terrain. Curt’s head fell back in exasperation as he let out a groan, showing off the whole of his neck, a place Owen would kill to have his mouth right—

 

God, he had had too much to drink. 

 

He untied the apron from around his back and set it down on the counter beside him, drying his hands with it before making his way into the living room. Instead of giving into what his childhood pastor would have called “the devil’s pager message,” (they were desperately trying to get adolescents involved in the church), he instead clapped a hand on Curt’s shoulder promising to take care of it.

 

It was such a pleasant sight to see Agent flopped in front of a pile of scattered DVDs, acting like he had never seen them before in any of his nine lives. The kitten was pawing the light that scattered on its surface, as if it were lasers he had to chase, and it was utterly adorable to see him struggle to catch them. He rubbed a hand down Agent’s diminutive frame, eliciting a small mrrp from the kitten, before turning to the disorganized pile of plastic cases. 

 

A certain title caught his eye, and he crouched down to pick it up, “Huh. Hey Nick, look at this.”

 

“What’s up?” There was an annoyed frown on Curt's face that disappeared as soon as he saw what was in Owen’s hand. Amusement replaced it as he grinned like a child during Christmas. God, he looked gorgeous. “Oh yeah, I forgot we had that.”

 

Owen turned it over and smiled fondly, his mind conjuring memories of the times he’d watch it with his sisters. “I loved this movie as a kid. I probably shouldn’t have been watching it, but I loved it.” 

 

Curt turned to him and gave him a coy smile, “Which kid was that, Nate Carter or Owen Carvour?” 

 

“Owen, Nate’s parents were more strict when it came to movie ratings. We should watch it sometime.” Owen popped open the case to take out the DVD, but was disappointed to find that it was empty. Damnit. It was too good to be true. Not all of the junk the CIA gave them to fill this place up actually had anything of value. “Or not. Damn, now I really want to watch Beetlejuice.”

 

“Always wanting what you can’t have, Carvour.” They shared a look, Curt’s crooked smile still playing on his lips. It took muscle control and self-discipline not to look down at those damned lips of his, Owen’s heart swelling as he thought of how right those words were. One day. He’ll have one day. “Well, there’s another way we could watch it.”

 

“Do tell.”

 

“Has your opinion of musical theatre changed since Copenhagen?”

 

That got a crow of laughter from him, “The production of _Love Never Dies_ we saw was almost bad enough to ruin it for me, but no. What are you implying here, Curt?”

 

“Well, I know Nate Carter would agree, but how would Owen Carvour feel about going to see this on Broadway this weekend?” Curt sat back, wiggling his eyebrows as he chuckled, “Come on, it’ll be fun! Just the two of us, if you want.” 

 

Damn, did his heart stop on his chest. Owen could only look at Curt in amazement. A date? Was this man proposing a date? A date with Owen Carvour and not Nate Carter? His heart thundered in his chest. Maybe he can have what he wanted, what he wanted so badly. His mind was racing to find the most appropriate answer to what he was just offered. 

 

Finally, he gave him a slow, wide smile. “I think he’d like that.”

 

Curt bursted in nervous laughter, and Owen swore that he’s never felt his heart skip a beat that strongly. “Great. That— that’s great.”

 

“Although, I will have to check with him and that could take a while. Owen is a very hard man to get in contact with, love. I’ll probably have to go through his superior and knowing how busy she is, my lowly request might get thrown to the bottom of the heap for _weeks_ and—” 

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Make me.” 

 

Curt shoved him to the side and stumbled back as he laughed loudly, louder than he had when Carys and Vincent were arguing over pasta. He pushed back with equal vigor before everything devolved into a giggling shoving match, kitten scampering away with them with every push, tumbling onto their backs to become an impromptu wrestling. Owen giggled and laughed as Curt tried to put him on his back, ignoring the dig of DVDs on his back just to win. 

 

Owen accidentally slammed into the coffee table, and perhaps he'd find it painful if not for the fact that Curt was easily all over him. Hands skittered all over him in an effort to find a place to keep him pinned down to the floor. Owen giggled and felt his face heat up. God, he's had so much to drink. 

 

His hands slid up to Curt's cheeks. Owen's giggling has subsided and now he can look at Curt clearly, clearer than before. His cheeks were red from laughter. His eyes are glittering and fuck, he's realized what position they're in.

 

He's so close. 

 

Slowly, he hesitantly dipped the man forward, taking him closer as he considered if they were going too fast, too far into the cover. He gently, perhaps too hesitantly, brushed his lips on Curt's forehead. They stayed there for five minutes or five years, holding each other, holding still, hearts beating strongly against each other's before there was nothing but the two of them on the floor of their living room.

 

* * *

 

Owen Carvour could not be defined as a cheerful type. Cheerful just wasn’t a way to describe a man who was capable of making multiple terrorist organizations and sex rings crumble with the slightest sway of his hand. Cheerful was a word you’d use for, try, a preschooler on his or her first day of school. A country girl in the big city. One of the newer interns, maybe.

 

But he almost fit the description, if not for the preset notions about him. He looked pleasantly pleased with himself, as if he knew something Stephen didn’t. Every now and then he would shift his eyes to the clock on the wall, a slow grin spreading on his lips every time. He was being too patient with the influx of wiretapped conversations they were going through today, even if the server collapsed twice and Carys argued with Vincent on whose fault that was.

 

“You’re in a cheery mood today.” Stephen hummed, watching Owen carefully as the man looked up from his laptop. Indeed, there seemed to be a grin plastered on his face, and if fate would let it he’s sure his face would crack in two. It was a nice change to see him so jolly. He just wanted to know the reason behind it. “Care to share why?” 

 

Owen grinned and spoke with an air of finality, and Stephen couldn’t help but feel his own smile growing as he explained, “I’m going on a date with Curt Mega.” 

 

* * *

 

“I’m going on a date with Owen Carvour!” 

 

Curt Mega was pacing around the bedroom, sniffling punctuating his footsteps as he panicked quietly. He left work early with the blessing of Eli (teasing, really), so now he had all the time to figure out an outfit to wear to Broadway. It wasn’t technically his first trip to the great white way, nor was it his first time dressing up in his first month in the country, but that didn’t seem to stop the jitters that ran up and down his back.

 

Because holy shit, when was the last time he went on a date? Does he even know how to date nowadays? He can’t even remember who and when was the last time he went on a date. Prior to the Middle East his “romantic” life was made up of random trysts in seedy motels or quickies in closets, and that was it. He’s been dating his right hand for the past few years, if that counted. 

 

But to date an actual human being? Owen Carvour, of all men? God have mercy on him, he didn’t even know where to start.

 

So forgive him for pacing the room, from stumbling into a slow panic that threatened to boil over and consume his senses. He couldn’t even decide on what _colors_ to wear, Jesus Christ. He knew that he had to wear business casual at best, maybe something a little more formal than that (semi-formal?), but his brain cells somehow decided to jump ship and abandon him in this grand time of need. Fuck them. Treacherous they are. Off with their heads.  Do brain cells have heads? Getting distracted, never mind. 

 

At least Simmons was there to talk some sense to him. “There” in this situation was more of a theoretical thing, a technicality, but to hell with that. Curt was too wrapped up in his own terror to think of the proper words to describe his situation. Simmons was currently on the hologram projector, the upper half of her body flickering against the vanity table as she spoke, “Alright, calm your tits Mega—” 

 

He blurted out, “I don’t have any.” 

 

“You’re shirtless and I’m a lesbian. I know a good pair when I see one.” Irritable. She clicked her tongue and shook her head, the scarf around her head ruffling as it did. The monochromatic blue of the projector’s pixels failed to tell him anything about her quirky outfit, but at least he can discern what was patterned on her hijab. Leaves. She’s excited for fall. “So tell me. You asked him out to watch Beetlejuice the Musical.” 

 

“Yes.”

  
  
“So this is all you’re doing?”

  
  
“Also yes.” 

 

“And you’re panicking because…?” 

 

“Because I’m going on a date with Owen Carvour.” 

  
“Right. _The_ Owen Carvour.” Simmons slumped on whatever she was sitting on back in the CIA Station and sighed, somewhat dramatically. The tension and exhaustion just seeped out in that sigh alone, which was odd since he was sure that her schedule was rather vacant. She rolled her eyes just as theatrically. Huh. “Fucking finally.” 

 

“This isn’t a game, Simmons! I don’t even know what to wear.” Curt stopped dead in his tracks and turned to her, almost giving himself whiplash while at it. His arms flew up in exasperation before setting down, lower lip jutting out as he sulked. Across him, Simmons flickered passively on the vanity, carefully pulled face unreadable to him. He spoke softer, “This isn’t Copenhagen.” 

 

“Well clearly it’s not, otherwise you wouldn’t be phoning me in the middle of work.” Work, his ass. Her schedule is more vacant than the one he has with Bread & Brew. “Now, please tell me that Captain Carter owns decent clothes because I know Officer Mega doesn’t.” 

 

He made a show of striding over to his closet and opening up for Simmons to see. “I think I have my dress uniform around here somewhere.” 

 

“You are _not_ gonna wear your dress uniform to Broadway, Mega. Houston will have our heads for it.” She seemingly stood from her desk chair and paced around her side of the office, the projector’s camera following her movements. He could see more of her outfit now, and he’s hazard a guess that she’s wearing a loose sweater with sleeves that billowed out. Huh. He’s never seen that top before. Perhaps she bought it. “Let’s start with the bottoms, because clearly you are one and we need to get that part right.” 

 

Curt rolled his eyes at that comment but went with it anyway. He slowly took out a stack of buttoned up shirts (he’s sure his usual shirts aren’t considered business semi-formal), awkwardly wrapping around them and setting them down on the bed. Half of them smell stale, but to be fair they’ve been sitting in his apartment’s closet for God knows how long. They didn’t have patterns or variations in designs like Simmons usually had, and were rather monochromatic and regular. Well. That’s why he preferred his normal shirts to these. 

 

He took the first one off the pile and brought it to his face to take a sniff of it. Yeah, four years too long. He flicked his eyes unsurely to the hologram projector across him, Simmons’ passive face staring back, before she shook her head and turned away. It’s not like he wasn’t uncomfortable with getting dressed in front of her. Hell, they’ve shared tiny spaces where getting dressed in front of the other was standard. He shouldn’t have to be disconcerted about her ogling him. It’s not like she’d be interested. 

 

The first shirt was an odd fit. None of the buttons wanted to stretch over his torso. The sleeves hugged his arms that they were practically squeezing it. Every miniscule movement he made threatened to pull the seams apart. Weird. He shrugged it off and tried another. 

 

Three shirts in, with a bit of a struggle, Curt finally figured out what seemed to be the problem.

 

“My shirts don’t fit.” 

 

“No shit, Sherlock, that’s what happens when you haven’t gone shopping for four years.” Halfway through his second shirt, Simmons turned back around due to his noises of struggle. Her face was passive, as always, and dare he say amused. She gave him a once over. “But damn, Mega, I can see now why Carvour checks you out.” 

 

“We’ve been through this, Simmons.” Curt rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Frankly, this was just a big protective move. He knew that his chest got more… fuller over the years in the Middle East. Firmer. The early mornings he spent working out to forget his nightmares somewhat paid off, whatever that means in this context. “Play nice or else I’m ending this conversation.” 

 

Simmons quirked an eyebrow up, “Is this really the proper use of government resources, Mega? A strip show? You better wrap it up before my superior comes around.” 

 

“They took four years of my life, I think they can handle me taking twenty minutes of their bandwidth.” 

 

He fumbled with the sixth shirt in the stack, a rumpled baby blue shirt he’s never seen before. Taking it out of its hanger, he held it up to the light to examine it better. It looked new. He brought it closer to his nose. It _smelled_ new too. He patted it around and found the price tag still on it. Ah hell. He snapped it off with his teeth and laid it back on the bed once more to look at it. 

 

It looked much more bigger than the other shirts he wore previously, and the memory clicked with him as soon as he gave it a better look. His mom gave it to him a few months before deployment, reasoning that he did not have enough pretty shirts to wear to his office. Back then it was too large for him, a bit baggy if he would be frank, but now he’s sure it’d at least fit him a little better.

 

Curt tried it on and found that he was correct. It wasn’t so baggy now than when he wore it four years ago, and he filled it up better now. He turned to vanity, and to an extent, to Simmons, and looked at himself in the mirror, looking at the way the shirt hugged and tugged in parts that were previously baggy. He turned back to the closet to look for one of his suit jackets and ties. 

  
“This is a Broadway show based on an eighties movie, Mega, not the opera house.” He turned back around to see Simmons watching him, disappoint written in the downard turn of her lips. She nodded at the hanger of the suit jacket he was holding and shook her head. “Just pop open two buttons off your collar and tuck in your shirt.” 

 

“Alright, sweet,” A beat. “How do I tuck in my shirt?” 

 

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’re as stupid as the ass-kissers over at DC. It is with great misfortune that I find out that you are marginally worse.” She sighed exasperatedly and rubbed her nose bridge. “French tuck.” 

 

He rummaged around his closet for a good pair of pants and placed it on, thinking to himself as to what soured her day. Curt never liked the prospect of working in DC for the agency. That place was a den wrought with scandal and controversy, a political landmine that just wasn’t his taste. He preferred himself surrounded by life and the hubbub of people, far away from the suits and ties and protocol. Besides, if he wanted DC, he should’ve joined the Secret Service.

 

“Let me guess, you had to talk to the DC office today.”

 

“If you can even call it a talk,” Simmons sighed exasperatedly, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. So that’s what’s been ticking her off. “It was just a slew of political bullshit. No wonder I stayed in the Middle East for far longer than necessary. I can’t stand these snobs.” 

 

He scoffed and popped off the top buttons of his shirt, as advised. He stood proudly for her evaluation, “Sounds dull.” 

 

“Oh, it is.” She nodded in approval as she appraised him. Curt would like to admit, he did clean up well when he wanted to. He almost looked like he was deserving of Owen’s attention. He was about to say something when Simmons spoke, “What’s that?” 

 

Ringing on the vanity. His phone is buzzing loudly from its place next to the hologram, so much that it’s actually making Simmons’ image fizz and disappear. He strode over and picked it up, phone illuminating at the touch of his hand to read out a text from an unknown number. It simply read out a time and a place. Grindstone. 10 minutes. He checked the time on the upper right and saw that he could go with it.

 

He looked back up at Simmons and smiled reassuringly. “Got a text from my contact. I think I’ll get dressed for the date after this one. Is this outfit okay?” 

 

“I mean, yeah, just don’t forget to tuck your shirt.” That’s all he needed to know. He turned back and set his phone to the side, stripping out of his shirt and returning to what he was wearing earlier. He could still feel Simmons’ gaze on him, almost as if it was grilling itself to the back of his neck. She seemed to be watching him steadily, near suspiciously. “Is that the Chimera deep cover agent?” 

 

“Yeah, just gonna get some actionable intelligence then I’m good to go.” He turned back to her as he was pulling his shirt over his head. He ought to leave a note for Owen in case he came home before he did. Curt rummaged through his bedside table for a notepad and a pen. He quickly scribbled down a note. 

 

“Alright, be careful out there.” She nodded at him and gave him a quick smile. “Simmons out.” 

 

He watched as the hologram retreated into the projector, the room growing quiet as it did. Curt smoothed back his shirt and gave himself a once over on the mirror, then turned back to lay out the clothes on his side of the bed. The shirt looked a little crumpled. He supposed he’ll have to iron that out as soon as he gets back home.

 

Taking one more look around the room, he started making his way out of the townhouse, patting Agent’s head as he saw him. 

 

* * *

 

Alexandria Mclain was quite the character, all things considered. If he was being honest, he’d say that she looked like a femme fatale straight out of the old black and white movies of the early 20s, but he couldn’t judge. She _did_ look rather good in it. There was some kind of contrast going on with her in a full business suit (with a skinny tie!) and him in casual wear. They look much like two friends who are meeting up after work: one from a corporate job and another from something more labor intensive.

 

The coffee she ordered for him ahead of time was a bit too sweet for his taste, but it’s not like he could complain. It was _free_ coffee after all. He gladly welcomed it as he took minute sips from it, exchanging pleasant small talk with Alexandria as he did. 

 

He met Alexandria on the field once, when he had two years under his belt and she only had a few months. She was clearly one of the finest of her batch of trainees, all things considered, with a kind of flair that made her stand out in the intelligence industry. That said a lot, given the fact that their job was mainly about lurking in the shadows and watching their targets’ every move. 

 

“So tell me about what you know about the movements in Chimera,” Curt started as their conversation died down, leaning forward and resting his weight on his elbows. Alexandria’s face is passive, lips curled into a sweet cherry smile. She swirled her stirring rod around her coffee as she listened attentively, nodding at him to continue, “It’s been a while since I heard from you, thought something happened.” 

 

“Well, I’m a deep cover agent for a reason, Curt.” She flashed him an easy smile, all pearly white teeth and tranquility, before she cleared her throat and laid her clasped hands on the table. She was wearing lace fishnet gloves for some odd reason, the crimson red of her nails peeking through the fabric. “But I’m hearing something strange lately. They want to bring someone in.” 

 

“Oh?” He looked around the place. There weren’t many customers at this hour, besides lingering men and women trying to get some work done away from the noise of the corporate world. The waiters and waitresses were minding their own business flitting around the tables or disappearing behind the counter. No one can hear them. “Enlighten me.” 

 

“Someone’s been digging into them lately, apparently,” Alexandria said as she brought her cup to her mouth and took a long drink from her coffee. She stood casually and took her wallet out of her coat pocket, rummaging around for a five to put down as a tip. “They’re eyeing New York. I’d be careful if I were you. You never know who you can trust.” 

 

“What do you—” He stood just as quickly and paused as he felt his body sway. Odd. Spots appeared in his vision as he suddenly felt that his clothes were too tight, like he can’t breathe. “Alexandria—”

 

Her gaze was pitiful, “I’m really sorry to do this, doll. I mean it. You seem like a nice guy.”

 

“Alexandria—”

 

“Come here,” She pulled him into a hug and his legs near buckled, and she shushed him gently and patted his back. Her voice was so distant now, carried off to a faraway world he couldn’t reach. He tried to push her away but his arms were too weak, they refused to cooperate. He heard her speak to a waiter as they gently moved out of the restaurant.

 

There was the rush of New York noise around him, all the honking of taxis and chatter of the people around them. She said to the waiter something about “their” friends coming to grab him, about how this happened a lot. Anemic, she reasoned. He would be fine. He tried to crack an eye open and whisper for help as the car arrived and he was dunked into obscurity. 

 

* * *

 

Reality came back to Curt in fuzzy chunks. Trying to remember what happened the hour (has it been an hour?) was like trying to recall a dream. Moments and scenes flickered by, passing by him before he can catch them and grip them firmly into clarity. He remembered Alexandria apologizing to a waiter on his behalf, a car, a deep voice, and the passing images of Manhattan slipping past him. He could vaguely recall the sensation of someone patting him down, someone pulling the ring from his finger, and a clicking tongue.

 

“You know, it’s bad luck to pull a ring off of someone’s finger.” That deep voice said, syllables and sounds warbled together in a way that it was nearly indiscernible in Curt’s mental imagery. “Makes you two enemies.” 

 

“That shouldn’t be a problem, then.” Alexandria said, a touch too close to him. Curt couldn’t remember anything else after that. 

 

He could vaguely feel how his limbs felt stiff, slightly numb from lack of blood circulation, and how his head was pounding. There was a dull ringing in his ears that forced him to bite back a groan of annoyance. Damn Alexandria and her poisons. Curt went to raise a hand and rub his eyes and was struck with panic when he realized he couldn’t move. Something bound him down to whatever he was on tightly, and his mind tried to work against the ringing to conclude that it was rope. His eyes flew open without his permission, revealing the room he was being kept in.

 

It took a bit to adjust to the sudden brightness, which did not do any good to his poor head. He looked like he was in a normal bedroom, with wooden floorboards and walls with peeling wallpaper. A bookcase was set to the side with books in a language he couldn’t read from where he was. The air smelled strongly of staleness and mothballs, and maybe if he tried hard enough he’d detect the faint smell of disinfectant. Curt tried to still his heart and ignore the thrumming of his head as he continued observing.

 

He also took stock of his own situation: he was left in a white t-shirt and jeans but no shoes or socks, and his arms were bound to the headboard of the bed. Tilting his head up, he bit back a sigh when he realized that it was a bunch of zip ties keeping him down. Both his watch and his ring seemed missing. He turned back to himself. Wires had been placed on his body and connected to something outside his field of view. He tried to remember if there was something that could help him get out of this situation. 

 

“Hello, Curt. You look a little bit tied up there, don’t you think?” Curt’s head jerked to his right where the voice had come from. His vision blurred a little with the pain of his head and the sudden whiplash, but he could see a little clearly after a moment. Sitting there was Alexandria, with a black box on the table next to her. Wires stuck out of the box like multiple antennas, and it didn’t take much to put two and two together and realize that they were connected to his body. The thought made Curt shiver. He opened his mouth to ask what exactly was happening, but was cut off by Alexandria speaking again.

 

“Anyway, let’s not beat around the bush. What do you know about Sergio Santos?” She asked, an eyebrow raised to punctuate the question. Her cherry red lips were curled in a cat-like smile, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t say that it was almost threatening. Curt’s face twisted into a faked confused expression before he forced himself to return to a neutral one.

 

“I’ve never heard that name,” Curt said, tone tinged towards confusion. Tilting his head up was a lot of work, but he made sure the effort was worth it by appearing really confused. 

 

Alexandria paused for a moment, waiting for Curt to say something else. He held her gaze and breathed slowly, evenly, in a way that he was well-aware would irritate her. Memories of his training back in the CIA training facilities came back to him in waves, all the strict tones of his instructors overlapping to remind him of what he had to do. Resisting interrogation was one hell of an art. Unfortunately for Alexandria here, he was a master artist at it. She repeated the question, “What do you know about Sergio Santos?” 

 

He bit his lip and tried to look as innocent as possible by shrugging innocently and giving her a pitiful look. Aggravating the interrogator wasn’t really in the rulebooks of resistance but ah, hell, if he’s gonna suffer for the rest of his captivity in whatever shithole he’s in he might as well have fun before the actual “fun” started. He tightened his fists above him and took a deep breath as they stared at each other, slowly mentally marking the time in his mind. 0:00. The game is set. 

 

“I’ve never heard of the name, and any other way of getting anything out of me wouldn’t work.” He said, in the calmest and most bored tone he can muster. 

 

She simply gave him a disappointed sigh. He watched as Alexandria turned towards the box next to her and—

 

Pain. White hot flaming hot everything _burns holy shit that fucking hurts_ pain pain pain pain running coursing streaming cutting through him like a hot knife knived kniving have knived on butter (fuck). White hot pain pain God that hurts make it stop holy fucking shit all he sees saw is seeing will see has been seeing and there is nothing and there is no clear thing in sight and—

 

“What do you know about Sergio Santos?” She asked again the white is gone. Throat hurts who was screaming was it him? She asked the question again why does she keep asking that question Curt hoped that Owen would forgive him for not coming home. He shook hard shook his head and his heart and his brain as he watched Alexandria reach back over to the box.

 

* * *

 

5:05 PM

 

Finally he can come home. He said goodbye to the team in the office and cheerfully made his way out of the building, even saying goodbye to the security guard who glowered at him for being so cheery. Ah hell, as if he would understand. He was gonna go on a date with _the_ Curt Mega, he can have some slack. With a spring in his step that hadn’t visited in a long time, Owen made it back to the townhouse quicker than usual. 

 

He even saw Richard on the way back, fresh from his adventure upstate. Owen chatted happily with him about their plans for the weekend, even asking him if he had any advice for post-Broadway grub. The Southern man happily gave him advice and patted him on the back, wishing him the best time.

 

Stepping through the front door, he called out to his husband. God, that was such a sweet thing to think of. “Nick, I’m home!” 

 

The shout echoed through the townhouse, only answered by a small mew from one Agent, sleepily blinking at him from the couch. His watch chirruped with a notification confirming that he was home. Owen paid the silence no mind. He hung his satchel on a hook by the door before walking into the living room to give Agent an apologetic scratch for waking him up. He continued on into the kitchen, opening the fridge to take inventory of the food they had. Or rather, the lack thereof; _Christ, Carys was a vulture_. 

 

“We’re a little low on food, love. Do you want to order some takeaway or go out for dinner? Richard suggested some really good gyro near the Winter Garden Theatre.” Silence. Owen frowned. “Nick?” 

 

Huh. That was odd. Owen checked the time on his watch. 5:08 PM. His partner should definitely be home from the bakery by now. Worry twisted in his gut as he explored deeper into the townhouse, trying not to expect the worst. Did Curt get cold feet and bail out on him? He hoped not. He really wanted this date. He called out again. “Curt?” 

 

Silence. Now Owen was worried. He hurried up the stairs to the second floor, nearly tripping over his own feet as he walked into their room. He was greeted with an empty one. While Curt wasn’t in the room, it was clear he had been there. There were clothes laid out neatly on the bed, a baby blue shirt and white trousers. Brown dress shoes sat on the floor with balled up socks crammed into them. Next to the outfit sat a post-it note with a hastily scrawled message that read _“Meeting with a contact. Back soon.”_ Oh thank god, Curt was fine.

 

Owen sat down. The bed dipped with his weight as he picked up the shirt, a loose and soft thing. He'd never seen it before. He's sure Curt never wore it before. Owen gently brought it to his nose and took a sniff off of the collar. The smell of dough and body wash whiffed off of it. He angled his face and buried it into center of the fabric, taking a deeper breath in. The shirt smelled clean, maybe a little musty, but strongly like the ocean.

 

Pulling back, he clicked his tongue. It was crumpled in some places. This thing must've been in storage for a long time. That simply wouldn’t do. Owen rose from the bed and strode over to the vanity table, where he laid down the shirt to search for the iron stored here somewhere. 

 

There it was, stuffed in the back of the closet. He plugged it in and flicked it on then waited. He drummed his fingers patiently on the vanity's wooden surface. He eyed the gleaming amber light on the side of the iron. He caught the reflection of himself in the mirror, a little beard already taking shape on his chin. He then looked at the little bit of cardboard tucked underneath the shirt. 

 

Owen got to work as soon as the iron was hot enough. He smoothed down the creases, gliding the thing down the shirt's front. He took great care with the cuffs and collar, passing over them gently once or twice before moving on his merry way. He flipped it on its back to smooth out creases on the back, humming to himself a lazy tune as he did.

 

There, much better. Owen raised the shirt up for his perusal, and once finding it to be fit, strode back to the bed to lay it flat there. He took the trousers and did the same thing. He smoothened creases and hummed little melodies and sighed quietly.

 

Once everything was done, he stepped back and looked at the two pieces of clothing, free of wrinkles and creases. Pride swelled in his chest. Satisfaction.

 

He wished he could have this scene of domesticity more often.

 

 _Well, let’s see if I have anything to match_. 

 

6:10 PM

 

Owen sat on the couch downstairs, scrolling mindlessly through his phone while the local news played in the background. Agent had decided to settle on his lap, purring happily as he ran his hand through his fur. He’s sure that his trousers will be covered in orange cat fur once he gets off, but it’s not like he’s complaining. He parsed through his camera roll, looking for a picture of his sister his mum had asked for.

 

Owen found himself in the section of his photos with ones from the spring of 2015, the Berlin mission. The last time he was with Curt before the United States government shipped him out to the Middle East and away from Owen for nearly half a decade as he was laid claim to by Europol. He remembered everything about that night.

 

They were in a bar called Hopfenreich, celebrating completing their mission, blissfully unaware that in three weeks they would be separated by over 4,000 kilometers and several foreign governments. They had both been drinking beer, a lighter drink than Curt’s usual poison and a heavier drink than Owen’s usual, as Curt had insisted that, _“German bee_ r _is better than any wheat juice you have back home.”_  

 

To which Owen had replied, _“I’m only an hour plane ride away from the best Guinness in the world, you know.”_  

 

Curt had laughed and reasserted his (misguided) belief that Guinness was just as good in the States as it was anywhere else. Owen thought about the barely touched six-pack in the fridge and smiled to himself. _At least some things never change._

 

Curt had convinced him to try some German brand Owen could neither remember nor pronounce; Curt’s German was always better than his. He had severely overestimated his alcohol tolerance at the time, as he was completely smashed by the time he finished his third. Curt had had just as much as him but looked like he was only slightly buzzed. He looked just as good in this photo as Owen remembered him looking that night, hair rustled from the wind and cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol.  
  
Owen had wanted to kiss him so badly. He almost did.

 

Owen had been drunk, but not drunk enough that all coherent thought had left him yet. He reasoned that if things went well, it could be reasoned away as a drunken fling in the morning if that’s how Curt wanted it to be. And if he didn’t, Owen would finally have what he’d been wanting for years — Curt. He was ready to go for it, he was beginning to lean across the table when another thought slipped into his mind. What if it didn’t go well? It made Owen freeze where he was, petrified at the thought of Curt rejecting him, or worse.

 

If Curt had noticed any of this, he never mentioned it.

 

Curt had then suggested they take a picture together to start a collection of completed mission photos. Owen had agreed and Curt had snapped this selfie of the two of them, smiles wide, unaware of what awaited them in less than a month’s time. Unaware that this would be the only photo in the collection for four years. Curt had sent him the photo in an email about a year into his deployment, with the caption, “Missing the good times, hope to see you soon.”

 

He’d had the photo printed. And framed. In his flat and here in theirs. 

 

Owen was suddenly pulled out of his reprieve by the loud demands of his stomach. He stood, making his way towards the kitchen to scavenge the remains of the previous night’s party. A room full of ravenous spies had somehow managed to preserve a small Tupperware of pasta that he took from the fridge and set in the microwave. 

 

When the timer beeped, Owen removed the plastic container and grabbed a fork from the drying rack. He leaned against the counter, eating in complete silence. Alone. 

 

7:09

 

Another hour passed and Owen became more concerned with every passing second. The show started in less than an hour and Curt was still nowhere to be found. He’d met contacts with Curt before, unless something went south they never took this long. Dammit, Curt should’ve waited for him to get home. Knowing what they’re going up against, bringing backup would’ve been to most logical choice to make. 

 

No time to dwell on what could’ve been, he just needed to get in contact with Curt. Owen pulled out his phone, clicking on Curt’s contact and typing out a text.

 

**_You_ **

_How’s it going?_

 

Shouldn’t show the panic too quickly. Or at all. Curt could be friends with this contact, probably chatting them up. It’s his first time in half a decade that he’s been stateside. Owen just wished Curt warned him ahead. Ten minutes pass, no response.

 

**_You_ **

_Are you on your way back?_ _I don’t want us to be late._

 

Keep the cover. Husbands go out to see shows together often, right? Or well, husbands like them. Who was he kidding, anyway? It’s not like government boys and military boys get married often. Five more minutes, no response. Screw the cover.

 

**_You_ **

_Curt, are you okay?_

 

His leg is bouncing. _Answer me, goddammit_. Two minutes. Fuck this. 

 

Owen switched out of the messages screen and presses the call button. It doesn’t even ring. 

 

_“We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.”_

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck fuck _fuck_.

 

The world paused to become a blur of nothing, and then everything. He couldn’t even hear the noise of the television in front of him or the kitten underneath him. His breath came out in short gasps as he considered what was going on, brain stuttering to a stop realizing that there was an emergency in its hands. The thought of a date was far away from his mind as he stood, knocking the cat out of his lap in the process, ignoring its yowls of protest as he grabbed his hat from the stand and pulling it over his head. 

 

New York was suddenly too loud, too stimulating for Owen Carvour. His senses were working overtime as he struggled, his hands shaking at his sides, phone gripped hard in one of them, and his legs decided to make the decision for him to bolt forward and quickly down the road to get to the Consulate where clearly the team would be there to help him locate Curt and— 

 

“Woah, hey!” There’s a warm chest slamming against his and he bounced back, almost stumbling onto the sidewalk. The voice was familiar, thick with an Irish accent he knew so well. Vincent, with curly blond hair disappearing under a beanie. His green eyes conveyed worry so well, “Boss, you look a wee frazzled. Something wrong?” 

 

“Everything if wrong.” Owen bumbled, the words spilling out of his lips like water from a faucet. God, he felt like a faucet then and there, the words rushing out of him and fighting to get out of his lips as if there was a demon in his guts. Perhaps there was, anyway. His demons nagged and cackled with every second he stood still, “We need to go to the off— the office we need to go— to go to the office we need—” 

 

“Slow down there, cariad, look at me.” Another face comes into view, this time feminine and Welsh. Carys’ eyes shone with the same worry that was in Vincent’s as she reached over, cupping his cheeks. He wasn’t even aware that he was crying. She dipped her head down and looked him in the eye, face serious, “Did something happen to Officer Mega?” 

 

Maybe. Maybe something did happen to him or he was overreacting. Curt wasn’t answering his calls or his texts. He hasn’t been back in hours. He’s pretty sure Curt’s tracker wouldn’t register if he checked his phone, too. His heart was loudly racketeering in his chest and God, he had no idea. Nothing at all. But he had hunches and that was enough.

 

Vincent was watching him in the corner of his eye, and he turned to someone in the group. A third person. He recognized them as Stephen, “Sir, we need to go back to the office.”

 

“No,” Stephen’s voice cut through the noise in his head and New York, sending him back to reality faster than he expected. Both Carys and Vincent were looking at their handler with surprise as he hung out a step or two behind them, hands in his coat pockets. He looked casual, too casual for Owen’s tastes. “Carys, your laptops are connected to the server back at our flat, yeah?” 

 

“Yes sir, but—”

 

“Then we can do it from there.” Stephen gave them a meaningful look. He flicked his eyes back to Owen, gaze constant. Careful. Stephen looked more like a well-meaning superior than a friend at the moment. Owen wasn’t sure if he was thankful for that control or bothered by its depersonalization. He nodded at the general direction of home. “Come on, let’s go.” 

 

Stephen gently shouldered his way past the three of them and started making his way back to where Owen came from, calmly walking as if he was a man with no worries. It took him a second too long to realize that oh, right, they took the flat a few houses down to watch over them should anything happen to them. Well, congratulations, something did happen and the MI6 wasn’t there to stop Curt from getting hurt. Owen would let that sentiment be known if it weren’t for the fact that Vincent looped his arm around his shoulders, Carys standing on his left to rest a hand on the small of his back. Guiding him. Directing him back to comfort.

 

Owen took deep breaths as they started making their way past the townhouse that was their home. He turned to it and felt dread in his stomach, worry wrapping itself around his nerves. There was no way he’s going back there anytime soon. He was about to turn away when a thought occurred to him, “We have a cat—”

 

“I’ll get him.” Vincent disappeared into the house as soon as the words left his mouth, leaving him with Carys. She gave him a reassuring smile and lead him down the road, stopping in the house a few doors away, watching as Stephen produced a key ring from his pocket and jingled it in search of the one key he needed. 

 

He’s going to find out what happened to his Curt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain my absence: Seeing as I am a social sciences brat, I have to do a lot of papers and general writing because apparently that's what life is lately. Recently I had to do a major paper for two subjects and decided to take a solo project using the process of autoethnography, think a really technical memoir. That paper is currently listed as part of the school's anthology. I'm very proud.
> 
> So. We have a lot to unpack: 
> 
> \- This is a chapter of 11569 words. Yeah. It's insane. I don't know how I got there either.  
> \- The chapter title is from The Dame's "Blood in the Water". I watch a lot of Lucifer and their soundtrack fucking slaps.  
> \- Stephen is Anny's character! I keep forgetting to mention that or I think I have but either way Anny is the best, please check them out in tardisgrump over at Tumblr!  
> \- Apparently according to Cailin and Lilly Guinness is shit over in the States and only Ireland has the god tier Guinness. Unfortunately for either I don't drink so I'm just hoping to god they're correct.  
> \- It hasn't been discussed anywhere as far as I know but Carys and Vincent are roommates in the MI6 housing they get a few blocks from the Consulate. Their dynamic can best be compared with Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan's.  
> \- We have a running joke in the team that Simmons is particularly snappish here because she's been doing some day drinking after handling DC. No one wants to take care of DC. That's a mess in itself.  
> \- Yes, French tuck is a reference to Queer Eye.  
> \- We stared at too many pictures of shirtless Curt Mega to determine that he had really nice pecs that were worth remarking about.  
> \- Alexandria Mclain is a character of Anastasia aka @stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet), I'm so glad to finally get to the part where I borrow her character because she is just the best, and I can't wait to tell you more about her!  
> \- "lurking in the shadows and watching their targets’ every move." is obviously a reference to Spies are Forever, because I felt that it was necessary to make that joke.  
> \- The fishnet gloves are rather symbolic of the fact that while she is not directly involved in the whole scheme with Curt, she is still somewhat accountable for what happened to him. She still served as accomplice. She still had responsibility over his disappearance.  
> \- To pull a ring off of someone else's finger is really a superstition in my country. You become enemies with whoever pulls it off of you, it's sad.  
> \- That funky writing is coming back in full force for the next chapter, just you wait :) 
> 
> As always, thank you for tuning in, and we'll see you in the next chapter!


	11. to make offense a skill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought we were done here, huh.
> 
> So we felt bad to leave y'all hanging for a month so we decided to drop a wombo combo. Welcome to part two of our tomfuckery. 
> 
> I don't really know what you need to know, beyond this: MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS: Descriptions of torture, implied drug use, description of injuries, Curt Mega being unable to catch a break.
> 
> The original draft of this twisted my gut so badly that I had to tone it down. Here we are. Caution. None of this is plot relevant if you try hard enough.
> 
> Hold my hand, Cailin, Lilly, and Percy. We'll need it. 
> 
> Deep breaths. Let's go.

Day 6. 

 

Dreamed about Owen dream a lot dream a little dream not at all, not at all, not at all and everything. Dream a little dream of me? She? He? He. Owen. Kept him sane kept him from breaking (I’m sorry, Owen) (I failed) (again)  

 

There he was standing there in the sunlight glowing glowed bright glow dark glow bright glow dark he’s so shimmery. Not even wearing a damn thing that’s the treat of his mind anyway what a pervert so ethe _ real _ (look at this. A man I cannot have) and god, he might be some kind of angel some kind of divine being (he looked the part). Wings bright and white (That rhymed?) unfurling behind him so ethereal so gorgeous so beautiful that it hurt that he looked. Curt can’t fucking see. Fantastic. 

 

Glittering smile he smiles so widely like a lion like a prowling panther so gorgeous, so beautiful. Laughter echoing around and around like a merry go round of music, what music? Could it even be called music? It haunts haunting haunted will haunt has been haunting the brain, the crevices, the room is full of noise. 

 

Curt reach. Reached. Reaching. Closer. He need. Angel. The angel. Glowed brighter. 

 

Harsh light. Fuck. Ugly fucking mug. Showtime. 

 

* * *

 

MEDICAL REPORT NO. 1031-2019 

 

NAME: OFFICER CURTIS LAWRENCE MEGA 

AGE: 31 YEARS OLD 

SEX: MALE 

 

REPORT MADE BY DOCTOR FRANCIS McCARTHY, PHD

 

INITIAL ASSESSMENT: 

 

Officer Mega was in bad shape when he was shown for assessment. Initial checks indicated that he sustained blunt force trauma to the cranium, broken nose, multiple cracked ribs, multiple lacerations, and potential organ damage. Internal bleeding is expected, especially around the abdominal region. Bruising and lacerations can be found around his back and legs. 

 

The doctor has been notified that Mega was found with two IV bags injected into his arms. Neither bags have been retrieved by the team of operatives during the extraction. They are currently being retrieved per the request of the doctor for assessment. A blood sample has already been drawn and sent back to the office for testing. 

 

There is a third degree burn found on his left pectoral that is showing signs of infection. It is currently being cleaned for assessment. 

 

Given the current state of the patient, initial prognosis is that he will require proper medical procedures in a medical facility. Chances of survival are currently slim given the initial checks, but that may improve after more testing. As of writing, his partner Agent Owen Carvour has refused to move him to a facility. Pending approval from Director Cynthia Houston. Should it be approved, Mega will be moved to a CIA black site.  

 

* * *

 

Day 1.

 

“You step out of line, you get zapped. If you even so much as snarl, you get zapped.” Dmitri Walker’s voice echoed about the room as the men manhandled Curt from the bed, dragging his limp legs to a spot in the middle of the whole place. Metal, heavy chains waited for him as they gripped his torso roughly and shackled him to them. The cold instantly bit into his skin as he grit his teeth, sucking in a deep breath. His skin itched around them. “Cooperate and you’ll be treated nicely.” 

 

“I know the rules of your fucking game, Walker.” That seemed to get a grin out of the man. It was no secret that Dmitri Walker was an effective interrogator, what with his track record in the criminal underworld. “Unfortunately for you, I know the game well, and I know that I’ll be the one winning it.” 

 

The grin on the man’s face merely twisted upward. Walker was notorious as a man with a deadly high kill count, so high that many whisper and proclaim him as the deadliest man alive. He’s a mysterious man, allegedly with special forces training backing him and a whole network of terrorist organizations behind his back. The man was peak mercenary, the boogeyman made corporeal, and everyone was too scared to come under his radar.  

 

“We’ll see about that.” Walker clapped his hands and looked around, landing his gaze on Alexandria. Curt followed his gaze and craned his neck back a bit to see what was going on beyond Walker’s shoulder. He almost gasped when someone behind him wrapped something heavy around his neck, assessing later that it was a collar. Huh. “What on Earth are you doing with those gloves, Mclain? It’s just gonna get soiled after we’re through with him.” 

 

True enough, Alexandria was fitting a pair of leather gloves over her hands, securing them with the smallest tugs to her wrist. She gave Walker a disdainful look as she flicked her hair back, wrangling a stray hair back her ear. She looked impeccably dressed for someone who’s about to torture the shit out of him, all things considered. He’s almost amused. 

 

“Bold of you to assume I’ll even lay a hand on him, Walker.” Her voice carried the same notes of disdain as she shook her head and flicked her gaze to Curt. He held it as Walker glowered at her.

 

“What’s your excuse, hm? Scared of some blood on your hands? Scared of dirtying up your dainty little fingers?” 

 

“Unlike you, Walker, I happen to have a semblance of common sense.” She shot him a sharp glare that gave no room for any argument. She flicked her hand at him, “Now off you go,  _ leave.  _ I’ll take care of this.”   

 

Walker gave her a steely look, narrowing his eyes suspiciously before turning to Curt and giving him a firm look. He had bright blue eyes for some reason, and it was ironic that he’d have such a lovely eye color for a man who kills for a living. For some reason, he looked very much like his next door neighbor. Right. That’s a bad thought. He nodded slowly before turning around and making his way out of the door. 

 

That left Curt with Alexandria and the two goons by his side. The collar was really digging into his skin, and he’d hazard a guess that it’s the velcro nagging him. Alexandria made a show of walking out of his field of vision and coming back with a chair, dragging it behind her with a sharp shrill. She set it down in front of him and daintily sat down, rolling her hair back with the curl of her hand.

 

He never assumed her to be a traitor to the agency and the country, if he’d be honest. She had one of the cleanest track records, one of the finest in the department. She was respected and honored by all who came across her. Hell, last he checked, she was in Cynthia’s good book, which was a rarity seeing as he isn’t. He tried not to let his emotions bubble up and show as he stared her down and thought of what was to happen. 

 

“What was in it for you, huh?” Curt started, trying to shake off the grip of the goons as they tightened on his shoulders. With every inch of movement, his collar dug into his neck a little more. His restraints sunk in a little further. He didn’t give a damn as he glowered at the woman sitting across him. “Money? Influence? Protection for your girlfriend?” 

 

“I’m the one asking the questions here, Mega.” Alexandria’s lips twisted downwards as she folded her gloved hands over her lap. Her tone was cool and even, near textbook for someone who’s supposed to be interrogating. Curt tightened his fists around the chair’s handles. They both received the same kind of training, albeit his being more intensive. He can do this all day. She nodded at the two. “Go.” 

 

The world tilted as he and the chair were laid back, and all he could see was the bright light staring back up at him. He squinted as he registered the sound of water, a cheesecloth quickly covering his face, and he prepared for the worst as he took a deep breath and counted to ten. 

 

* * *

 

“How does it look from here?” 

 

“Not as good as I want it to be, but we will manage. Are you landing soon?” 

 

“Yeah, just about. How is Owen?” 

  
“Peachy.” 

 

“Cynthia—”

  
“I know what you’re going to say. I’m gonna tell you now that he’s gonna  _ manage _ —”

 

“You almost lost your best agent on the field because you couldn’t take care of him!” 

 

“And that’s protocol, Victoria! That’s the fucking job!” 

 

“I will never understand you Americans. You’re too sacrificial of your men.” 

 

* * *

 

Day 2

 

Alexandria doesn’t lay a hand on him. Why would she, anyway? She’s made it obvious since day one that she wouldn’t.

 

“I’ll have you know, Mega, it’s not my prerogative to make you suffer,” She said to him as he was gasping like a fish out of water, his lungs burning with the water in them. “But I’ll sure as hell facilitate it if you refuse to be cooperative.” 

 

“Go to Hell.” Curt gasped, and the world descended into obscurity. 

 

Today was no different. She sat on her little plastic chair (now with a plastic table in front of her) while drinking coffee, a French press next to a pristine ceramic cup. She carefully poured herself a cup as he was hauled out of his chair and onto the floor, connecting his chains to two larger ones that extended into the shadows of the room. As the men disappeared into them, he was suddenly hoisted higher, and higher, until he was forced on his feet and standing tall in front of Alexandria. 

 

She didn’t regard him for another second, instead turning back to her coffee and whatever was on her phone. They got rid of his shirt last night before they left him alone for the rest of it, so now he was exposed for her to see.

 

“Tell me about Sergio Santos.” 

 

Curt felt the cold, familiar feel of a steel pipe against his back, and sneered, “Fuck you.” 

 

Whack. Flash of pain up his flank. Flash of pain up his side. For a brief moment all is white. White hot. Pain. He bit down on his lip and there it was, the pain. The searing pain. Pain. 

 

When vision came back, she was there, watching. Pouring another cup of coffee. “Let’s try that again.” 

 

There. They had. So many. Weapons. A steel pipe for pain. A whip for more pain. A knife to drive words home. When there was no need. To. Gaze. Metallic. Constant. Bored. Alexandria was a woman of few words. And whatever words she used, threw the point across and hit hard. It was like taking bullets. It was like a chess game with linguistics. 

 

“Why do you do it, huh?” He ragged at one point, blood. Dripping. From his nose and over his lips. He isn’t sure if his hair is in his. Eye or the blood. Maybe both. Maybe neither. “Why do you— are you a coward, Mclain?” 

 

She only gave. A cold. Calculating glare. Killer. “Tell me. About. Sergio Santos.” 

 

Curt laughed dryly and spat at her. Watching the blood splat. On the table. It blotted on her gloves. “Whatever you do, you’ll always have blood on your hands, Alex.”

 

She looked at him in. Disdain and stood. Draining her. Coffee cup. Nodding at the goons. “Have your fun.” 

 

She leaves. And the world became a haze of nothing.

 

* * *

 

[LOADING]

 

[LOADING]

 

TRACKER NO. 405105205 - OFFICER CURTIS LAWRENCE MEGA 

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT HARLEM, NEW YORK CITY 

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT ATLANTA, GEORGIA 

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS    
  
TRACKER WAS PINGED AT YUMA, PHOENIX 

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT BOISE, IDAHO

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

 

TRACKER WAS PINGED AT HONOLULU, HAWAII 

 

TRACKING OF TRACKER HAS FAILED. PENDING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

 

[END TRANSCRIPT]

 

* * *

 

Day 3.

 

The pain is barely managable, but he’s gotta fucking manage it. He’s back on the chair again. He’s sure his wrists are chafing. 

 

Walker entered the room alone, the first time he had done so. He was carrying a small black bag and what looked to be a metal lunch box. The plastic table was in front of him, covering in his sweat and blood. Ew. When he reached Curt, Walker set his stuff down, smirking.

 

“Got a surprise for you, Mega,” He said, opening the box. Curt grimaced, doubt obvious in his expression. His head is  _ pounding.  _ “Think you’ll like this one more than the others.” 

 

“You really think so?” Curt’s half-mocking tone didn’t seem to put Walker off from his plan.

 

“I do,” Walker replied confidently. From the lunch box he pulled a small tin of grits and a thin metal spoon. His accent was thick, mocking, and if he actually closed his eyes he’d see his neighbor. “A comfort from back home in the South ought to help cheer you up.” 

 

As familiar as the dish was, Curt couldn’t describe the meal as a comfort. Just by looking, the grits were long cold and had congealed into clumps of ground corn. Despite that and the fact that the food could have been drugged, Curt’s stomach clamored for food. He sneered at his own body rebelling. 

 

“Are you going to feed me yourself?” Curt quipped to ignore the pounding of his head and the growling of his stomach. “Because I can hardly do so like this.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Walker answered, now unzipping the black bag. He pulled out a pair of shock cuffs similar in design to the collar currently digging into Curt’s neck. At Curt’s look of confusion, Walker spoke. “Can’t have you eating with a collar on, wouldn’t want you to choke after all, but we can’t have you being able to escape.”

 

“Of course not.” Curt rolled his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself as Walker clipped the cuffs onto Curt’s wrists and removed the collar. The air felt so cold around his neck now. Sweaty. Disgusting. Walker then retrieved the grits and spoon, handing them to Curt with an exaggerated gesture. Curt gave him an incredulous look.

 

“My wrists are still tied down,” He pointed out. Walker simply shrugged.

 

“Not my problem.” Curt huffed and leaned forward as much as his bindings allowed. He managed to scoop a spoonful of grits and was carefully bringing it to his mouth when—

 

Spasm. White hot pain alive and down his wrists oh god the spoon flew. Out of his hands and clattered. His back is rod straight. Pressed against the backrest. Pain is there and it is there to  _ stay he can’t even feel his own headache it just hurts and  _ Walker. Smirking while he’s watching. There’s no way he. Can eat so Walker picked up the spoon for him. 

 

“You’re pathetic, Mega,” He laughed, how  _ fucking dare he  _ laugh while watching him struggle. Fingers refuse to cooperate. For fuck’s sake. “Even children can feed themselves while staying clean, while you can’t even manage to get the food into your mouth.” 

 

So he tried again. White searing hot pain up and down his wrists and even the spoon is  _ so fucking hot holy shit that burns.  _ Clattered down on the bowl his fingertips burning and will burn and the fucking. Grits bounce back and splatter on him. He felt dirty. Felt raw. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. 

 

Nine. Eight seven. Six five four—

 

“Open up.” When did Dmitri Walker approach? Brain fizzling. It just might be burning but there he is right up front with the spoon in his face. Babied. This is just stupid. He sneered and was about to say another thing but oh well, there it is, down his throat holy  _ shit  _ that’s cold. The metal clattered against his teeth as the spoon was pulled out of his mouth and he coughed loudly, stomach unprepared. 

 

He needed a warm meal, goddamnit, can’t this bastard—

 

“Not going to appreciate my gift, Mega?” Walker moved back towards the door. Oh. Shit. He was speaking, was he? “Well, if you’re not going to eat it, then we have no need for it.” 

 

Disappearing, but he can hear the sound of food going to waste. He knew that sound pretty damn well I mean it’s not like he hasn’t seen all this happen before right  _ right?  _ Panic pressed at Curt, but he kept his composure because that’s the only decision he’s got at the moment. Even as Walker exchanged the cuffs for the collar again even as he patted Curt’s cheek and called him “pet” Curt stayed strong. Finally, once Walker had left, Curt held his breath and counted to ten.

 

One two three—

 

Four. Five six. Tears stream down. 

 

* * *

 

Day 5. 

 

Curt slept fitfully that night, if the word “sleep” could even be applied to the hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness that lasted through the night. The fact that Walker hadn’t bothered to turn the glaring light off (which Curt knew was intentional) didn’t help either. Neither did the plastic shock collar digging into his throat or the pain that radiated from his wounds no matter how he positioned himself. Although, to be fair, being tied to a chair did not allow for a great range of movement. At least he was given a shirt for mercy. 

 

All of this culminated in Curt being not at the top of his game when Walker into the room the next morning. Two lackeys followed behind him. One was pushing a cart around. The other was carrying a bulky black bag. Curt expected the men to leave, but they instead moved to stand beside him. His tired body clenched his teeth and his fists did in preparation. Deep breaths. There they were. Walker spoke.

 

“Sleep well?” What a clown. Curt wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face.

 

“Fuck off,” Curt replied. Walker just shook his head, still smiling.

 

“Ever the wise guy, Mega. As much as I would love to continue trading quips—” Walker produced a sleek black remote from his pocket. Wasn’t that the remote of the collar? He took a sharp breath in. “—I really would like to get on to the fun part.” 

 

Click and there was pain white and hot and everything burned and he wasn’t sure who was howling but there was someone fucking howling in that room and he’s sure that ain’t him. Pain was just everywhere think a toaster being dumped in a bathtub while directly plugged to the power grid that powered all of New fucking York. Body and muscles tightened and the world was a blank canvas for the fucking pain that was being thrown at him. 

 

Walker was crouched in front of him rummaging in the black bag from earlier and he produced a long metal pole with a plastic handle. Metal design. Circle of metal. Oh for fuck’s sake. Shit. No that’s not what we’re doing today. He knew what that shit was.

 

“Like it? I think it would look best right…” He trailed his free hand over Curt’s exposed torso. Shit. Where did his shirt go? There’s a hand on his fucking left pec this is sexual harassment what the fuck. “...here.”

Two goons gripped the chair oh so that’s where they were. He tried for bravado but obviously that failed. He tried to laugh. “You’re not actually going to use that, are you?” 

 

“Well of course I am, Mega; I had this designed special for you. It would be rude to reject a gift. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?” Hey fuck off garbage man no one was asking you to talk about his mother. Maybe he snarled a little maybe he growled he just was so protective of her, he wished she never knew what was going on now. Walker just smirked. The brand began to glow red hot as it was heated. Where the fuck was it even being heated? Walker began moving towards Curt.

 

“Hey, wait—” Curt started but cut himself off because the heat was coming off of the metal in waves and holy  _ fucking shit this is gonna hurt.  _ Breathe. Stop breathing. What the fuck was training what the fuck did they say he stopped. Memories stopped. His brain was blank of all fucking times. He’s awake and dead in one fucking go. “Please no, please,  _ please no _ , please, please please please please no—”

 

“Aw, how quaint. The famously fearsome Curt Mega begging for me.” Walker gloated as Curt continued to ramble. A deadly smile was on his face that fucking  _ fucktard _ — “Still, I think we ought to put your gift to use. Do try not to move too much; you wouldn’t want to ruin the design.”

 

Their fingers dug in and what the fuck lads can we just talk about this we can talk about this right?  _ Right?  _ He watched it come closer count to ten  _ count to  _ **_fucking ten_ ** but he can’t so he watched and why the fuck is? Walker’s hand so? Still? Absurd everything was digging into him uncomfortably and he can feel that heat licking closer and closer and—

 

Nothing. There was. Nothing. 

 

There was white and there was nothing. Black and nothing. Grey and nothing. Every color known to man and nothing. Who was screaming? That was loud and painful and he felt so bad for the sorry guy who was suffering.

 

Oh. 

 

Oh that was— 

 

Oh.

 

He was the suffering man.

 

That’s—

 

Ten years. It was ten years before that fucking brand was off of his chest he can feel it pounding holy shit that thing was next to his heart right he could have  _ died what the fuck Walker this wasn’t the deal.  _ His. Even he wouldn’t go. Beyond this kind of torture what the  _ fuck _ —

 

“I think the design came out rather nicely; thank you for being so obedient and staying still for me, dollface.” Walker caressed the still burning skin, ow? He can’t even tell what was on his chest he can’t even tell anything because apparently his brain has decided to fry itself to smithereens at this moment. “Just reminds you of who you belong to.” 

 

“I don’t— I don’t belong to an— to anyone.”

 

“Why of course you do, little eagle. You belong to your government, or at least, you  _ did _ . You’re mine now, of course. And every time you see the brand you’ll be reminded of how your government abandoned you, leaving you here with me. And what a pretty trophy you’ll make. Once we’ve wrung you dry for information, you’ll be all mine.”

 

“F-Fuck you.” 

 

Ow. 

 

“You should be grateful, Mega. If I hadn’t claimed you, by the time we were finished here you would be rotting in a shallow grave.” 

 

“I’d prefer that to being stuck with a pig like you.”

 

Pain on his arm. Great. Just as he was in pain with this fucking brand—

 

Seconds. It only took seconds.

 

“So tell me about Sergio Santos.” 

 

* * *

 

Day 6

 

“Eyes up, Mega, here’s the phone.” 

 

“Curt? Curt where are you?” 

 

“Hi Ow-y. Ow-y. I feel. Ow-y.” 

 

“Listen to me love we’re trying to ping your cell so stay on the phone a little longer, alright? Talk to me here.” 

 

“You sound pretty. You’re really pretty.” 

 

“Who has you now, Curt?” 

 

“Dick Big, I think. Calls himself Walker now though. Weird.” 

 

“No, no Curt they’re two different people. Oh god, don’t give me that thought. We can’t seem to find you by your tracker. Are you okay?” 

 

“Okie dokie. It’s okay, I got the cover down. I’m doing great. We’re okay. We’re okay Ow-y.” 

 

“Curt we’re losing— Curt please just hang on.” 

 

“Sorry for being mean to you sometimes. Love you.” 

 

“We should prep him for transport.”

 

“Then let’s load him up.” 

 

Pain, and all disappeared in darkness. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let's talk:
> 
> \- Much shorter chapter to make it more jarring. 3969 words. That has to be some kind of record.  
> \- The chapter's title is from "A Hair on the Head of John the Baptist" by Saltillo. Iconic song. The best. I love it.  
> \- All stops have been pulled to fully achieve the writing of this chapter without going too heavy on the details. Every writing technique I've ever practiced is in full show here.  
> \- At some point Curt's thoughts leak into the narrative, laced with sarcasm and disdain. I'm very entertained by it, it was so fun to write. It was the only peace I got from writing something so depressing. 
> 
> Few notes? I know I get it, not much to tackle. There's a lot shown anyway. I'll be keeping y'all out of the loop before clearing it out.
> 
> As always, thank you for your love and patience, and we'll see you on the flip side :)


	12. got us a battle (leave it up to me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm back again.
> 
> This jump has been a doozy so it's been a while, I know, really sorry. Luckily I'm on break right now so I have time to get some serious work done! 
> 
> Dedicated to Ana and Millie for their fucking blacked out RP that has murdered me good. You're not ready for our tomfuckery.
> 
> Special smooches for Cailin, Lilly, and Percy!! Y'all tolerated my sporadic bursts of disappearance and reappearance. Thank you.
> 
> MAJOR WARNINGS: Sex trafficking, implied assault, and implied drug use. It's advisable that if you are really uncomfortable with heavy descriptions (I am talking about very heavy) of victims of sex trafficking or assault, please skip the scene entirely. It starts from "Carvour, do you read me?" and ends with "Owen woke up with a start". You can Ctrl + F to find it or scroll down if you don't mind doing the manual labor. A summary will be provided so you're in the know of what's occurred.
> 
> I understand that there's a responsibility of ensuring that the story is within the rating I've put it on, and that everyone is comfortable with whatever difficult subject we work to discuss. I also understand that there will be times when my oversight would fail me and not everyone will be comfortable with how we depict scenes, and for that I am really, terribly sorry. I take extra care with making sure safety measures and nets are there to ensure everyone's still having a good time, and I hope no one finds it too "cringey" or "sensitive". In the end, I'm talking about the safety and comfort of anyone who reads this, and I would appreciate feedback should I push the lines of that comfort. It helps me to know I can help you.
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter, slightly updated and tweaked for your satisfaction!!

The situation room was a sea of computers and CIA agents moving about, a dimly lit room with only desk lights and computer screens for illumination. It’s expansive, taking up at least half of the west wing of the whole floor, found in the center of the noise and hustle of the agency’s New York office. It was a room that was typically full of quiet chatter and easy conversation, but that has all changed due to the severity of the situation. The room was noisy with panicked conversation and moving paper with angry heels clicking about the room. A phone is ringing in the far off distance. 

 

Big monitors. To most it would be an eye sore to stare at them for too long, but they have to if they want to catch the first blip of a signal on it. Four days ago it was tuned to tracking Officer Mega’s watch and phone. Three days ago they tried his wedding ring and embedded tracker. Two days ago they tried all four items. Until today none has been traced, their signals bouncing off of cellphone towers and satellites like the DVD video logo bouncing off of the television corners. How those fuckers even knew about all those trackers is beyond them. Other monitors showed things like the stocks, the news, all that boring shit. No one paid attention to it. 

 

The catwalk oversaw all, and it’s usually where the big shot of the room stood. Cynthia Houston had personally flown down to get to the bottom of the latest bullshit, much to the chagrin of everyone at Langley. She stood like a prowling tiger, one hand on her hip and the other gripping the bannister of the platform. She dressed well for someone who had to drive for three hours (or less, there’s no telling with this woman) in the rain. The director was tightly wound, baring teeth at anyone who deigned to step out of line, eyes made of fire and brimstone and indiscriminate gunfire. Sometimes she growled and barked orders when her eagle eyes spot something unpleasant. 

 

Agents and interns alike skittered around the lower deck in some kind of frenzy, pressured to find the answers to the Director’s insistent questions. They held with them dossiers, half-empty coffee mugs, and the occasional laptop. Many of them moved around too numbly to be human, but too persistent to be machine. Tension was high in the room with every passing second that no answer was given. Shouting matches have become a constant as arguments erupted every other hour. The office quickly became a quagmire of hell as they scrambled in search of the missing operative. 

 

But behind Cynthia Houston was where the real pressure was, the real stress. Behind thick glass walls was a small conference room, doubling as an office, made of a glass conference table, a computer alcove, a couch, and an adjacent bathroom. The big shot of the room usually had it if they wanted to work in peace. It was in this room where Owen Carvour sat alone on the table with his phone cradled in his hands. He stayed in the dark and remained there to wallow in his own self pity, wrapped in his own worries and anxieties. His hands trembled and shook as he stared at the icon on the screen, "call ended" the only words on it under the face of one Curt Mega.

 

Tears dribbled down his nose, past his lips, and down his face. They leaked until he can no longer cry tears.

 

“Love you.” Two words. It only took two words to shatter his resolve and destroy whatever strength he had left. Owen was terrified of the conclusion he had to face. His partner was gonna die, there was no other way around it. Maybe not physically, but whatever state they find him after this is a state they can’t revert. There’s no recovering from this. Owen has failed as his friend and partner and all he could do now was face the consequences of his foolishness. 

 

He felt tired. Seriously bone tired. Drained dry. Whatever energy and willpower he had, whatever form of confidence, was lost. The turmoil of missing his Curt has burbled up and filled him before tiding over him, 

 

A few minutes after the dreaded call, someone came to check on him. Owen didn’t even hear them enter the conference room, nor did he recognize their figure when they stood next to him. In the darkness of the room and the blurriness of his sight, he could only make out the telltale swatch of fabric wrapped around their head. They only offered him a cup of water and a cookie from the canteen. He didn't even have the willpower to give them a proper thank you.

 

The glass was thick here, he'll give them that, a little too thick if he thought too hard about it. He can't really hear the clamor of the outside world. He couldn’t hear the panicked noises of overworked government employees working around the clock in search of one man. It was his own little world here, just him and himself. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t hear them, anyway. It wouldn’t help. 

 

Owen brushed the tears from his face and rose from the table, his back immediately protesting with pain after remaining hunched for what seemed like an eternity. It popped as he moved in the dark, stumbling a little like an awkward newborn fawn into the bathroom, where he flicked the lights on. He squinted at the sudden brightness and rubbed his eyes out, blindly pawing his way to face the sink.

 

His eyes were red. Bloodshot. Snot dribbled down his lip. His hair has come undone in multiple places, and clearly he had no spare gel to pull it back to order. His cheeks were red and blotchy. Owen could do nothing but reach over to the faucet and wash his face clean. 

 

Cynthia Houston didn’t look amused nor disappointed when he emerged some twenty-odd minutes later, lips crooked in a pinched way that indicated she wasn’t happy with the current situation. She made no comment about his appearance and merely spoke, voice ragged from yelling at incompetent pencil pushers, “The call was too short. We couldn’t track it.” 

 

“It was worth a shot,” His voice was just as ragged, accent thick, but she said nothing about it. She turned away and tilted her head back, eyes catching the artificial glow of the computer screens. The lighting of this place looked near hypnotic, meant to put the whole world in a trance of work that seemed never ending. No wonder the frenzy of work that never seemed to cease around here. No wonder the apparent workaholism. “You should send out the search parties.” 

 

She reached into her pocket and produced a cigarette, her other hand taking out a simple lighter from her other pocket. Cynthia placed the cigarette between her lips and drew its butt to the flame, the first whiff of smoke hitting Owen as the lighter pulled back and she took a huff in. The red butt was a stark contrast to the dark blue of the whole room, and no one seemed to pay attention to their leading officer smoking at the top deck. 

 

Cynthia passed the cigarette to him as an offering, and he took it gratefully. He had a lungful of smoke in him when she exhaled the smoke with her words, “We’re not sending any.” 

 

That alone sent him sputtering and choking, ungracefully coughing out the smoke as if he were a teenager having his first puff. He nearly crushed the poor thing in his fingertips if not for Cynthia’s graceful plucking, the stick now in her hands as she took another drag. He could only gape at her as he tried to get his lungs back in working condition, trying not to yell at her as he tried his damned hardest to be calm.

 

“ _ What? _ ”

 

“You heard me the first time, Carvour. We’re not sending any search parties.” 

 

Now that could be for a good range of reasons, but even then half of them were preposterous. The CIA had all the resources to look for their missing agent. They had the time, the perfectly good reasoning, to look for Curt Mega. They had no excuses not to. Time was of the essence. They knew that Curt was injured, maybe severely going by what he’d heard, and there’s no telling what state he’ll be in when (not if, because God help him if there’s an if) they find him. The CIA was powerful, and they were working so hard now, so why are they not doing everything to look for him?

 

One reason stood out to him, however. Strange as it is, it didn’t sit well with him, “I thought America did not negotiate with terrorists.”  

 

“We don’t,” Cynthia agreed, a positive hum in her words as she took another drag from her cigarette.

 

“Then why aren’t you rescuing him?”

 

Cynthia turned to him and looked at him pointedly, cigarette poised between her two fingers with her other hand situated on her hip. Her hellfire eyes have finally turned to him to give its scrutiny, ready to criticize his words and intonation until all that’s left of him is ashes. As he watched her rove her gaze on him he couldn’t help but realize how it wasn’t so harsh, wasn’t hard on him. It didn’t hold much spirit. The director looked more annoyed than furious.

 

Finally she spoke, her nonchalance rolling off of her tongue like the cigarette smoke coming out of her lips, “We don’t have any actionable intelligence to work with, Carvour. Even your posh ass can get that.” 

 

That didn’t make sense. Based on what he knew and what he’s been briefed on, the CIA has been using an extensive amount of resources to locate this one missing Curt Mega. It’s sent ocular teams to scope Grey Areas and usual sites where either would be, techies scrambling to search for his tracking devices, even sent out a quiet APB across local law enforcement and international organizations. It’s only been a few days or so, frankly too long if Owen was to be asked. There should be news by now. It’s the modern times, not the 1800s; they can work faster than this. 

 

Owen spoke, “We have hunches, don’t we? We have the CCTV footage from the Grindstone. We know the agent who was with Curt at the time of the kidnapping. We even know the make of the car that took him. What else do we need to do?” 

 

Cynthia scrunched up her nose and tapped the cigarette butt on the bannister of the deck they’re on, the fallen ashes hitting some unlucky intern’s head before she returned the cigarette to her mouth. It shocked everyone when they found out that Alexandria Mclain, a deep cover CIA operative assigned to the Chimera case, was found to be responsible for bringing Curt to Chimera. Chaos erupted once that information was uncovered by the on-site team at the Grindstone, with the situation room alight with comments and reactions as they tried to wrap their head around the new information.

 

It Cynthia yelling and righting the room to order to get the facts straight. Alexandria Mclain was the last person seen with Curt prior to his kidnapping. Based on what the waiters saw, Curt was lightheaded and dizzy when he was ushered out by Mclain, and they stepped into a van with an unknown number of occupants before disappearing down the road. The van unfortunately had stolen plates. It was also a pretty common make. 

 

Just a few hours ago, the order has been made to activate and search for the agent’s trackers. Work has also been done to attempt contacting her, even going so far as to looking for her on-site handler who was stationed in Atlanta. In between work and searching, chatter has risen and two main theories have been made: Mclain did it to betray the agency, and to an extent, the country, or Mclain did it to secure her position in Chimera and further obtain more information on behalf of the agency. While both sounded pretty plausible to Owen, he was more inclined to believe the former. 

 

But he would never say that out loud.    

 

“We can wait a little longer.” Cynthia spoke it with such simplicity that it almost felt as if she was talking about the weather and not his missing partner, “You never know, Mega just might lead us to where the rest of Chimera is.” 

 

It left a sour taste in his mouth. Lead. As if Curt Mega could actually purposefully  _ lead  _ them to the organization they’ve been hunting down for the better part of the decade. In an instant that warbled, tired voice came back to wrap itself around his mind and remind him of his failures as a partner, his shortcomings, his clear incapability to take care of the one man he’s promised he’d look after. His mind just can’t connect that broken voice to the quiet brilliance of the man he’s known for a decade, longer than he knew anyone other than his family and superior, and that just hurt him.

 

“You can’t think he can handle himself on his own out there.” Owen spoke slowly, putting a hand on the bannister and leaning closer to Cynthia. He had half a mind to go beyond that simple comment, to point out that she’s never been on the field for the past decade. He wanted to say that things have changed, that her time in the post-Cold War intelligence field was nothing like the post-9/11 sphere he’s worked in for the entirety of his career. They’ve made more dangerous technology, more effective methods of interrogation, and he could very easily say that he would know more about the field than she ever would.  

 

“He can,” And yet she was so sure of herself. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline as if quietly daring Owen to say more. Her words spoke of finality. “And he will.” 

 

“Why do you always act as if he can do it when there’s been so many instances that he’s almost died?” Owen’s heart twisted in his chest as he stepped closer, almost at her face as he continued, raising his voice with an authority he certainly didn’t hold over this woman, but felt like using anyway. It felt right to him. “What makes you think he will survive out there with just his fucking wits and spirit?” 

 

“Because that’s all he knows how to do, Carvour.” The calmness in her tone was near jarring, almost bored. She spoke as if what they were talking about was basic and not the literal life or death situation of a man they both cared for. Owen felt a chill wrap itself around him as she continued, gaze unwavering, hellfire eyes gleaming, “That’s how we train men like him, those paramilitary boys. It’s all he knows how to do.” 

 

The air was still. Chatter in the situation room died down to pay attention to what was currently going on. No word was uttered as employees and interns alike watched the scene play on the catwalk.

 

Why wouldn't they watch? This was history in the making... maybe. Some kind of surreal. Some kind of... how should it be called, really? How should the unravelling of two legendary figures be defined? How should their irony be described? 

 

Because Cynthia Houston wasn’t yelling, no, her voice seemed more like a whisper compared to everyone’s voices in the room. It still held its command and its authority, a firmness that only she is allowed to wield, but it felt too quiet. It felt too unreal. Her gaze held her fury and her tongue spoke her ice, but her voice was silent. No one knew if that was worse than her yelling and hellfire.

 

But Owen Carvour? Now this is a sight. Fury came to him with unkempt hair, red-rimmed eyes, a downward snarl with a firm jaw to match. His accent, usually fawned over by the women of the office, has thickened and coiled around the words to make it appear more sinister. He raised his voice with a certain kind of command that drew people to silence. It was as if he took Cynthia’s authority and made it his, taunting her with her own power. 

 

It seemed, to the onlookers anyway, that all it took was a man to dissolve whatever civility was between the two. 

 

Having Cynthia Houston yell at people was a regular occurrence. That was certainly her brand, her kind of discipline, and she was pretty damn known for it. No one dared to defy her when she roared her fury because it was simply her place to be angry, her anger was usually well-founded. Fury in the image of Houston was familiar, something somewhat comforting, especially in this dire situation. It was good to see her mad. It was good to see her feel anything at all.

 

But to see anger in Owen Carvour? What an unfamiliar concept. The man looked terrifying livid, like watching a wayward thread on a shirt unravelling to become a million different things and nothing. It was jarring to see the senior agent usually so well-kept, so well-groomed, break and morph into a grotesque and twisted image of... fury. 

 

Yes, that's right, fury is what to call him. What other word is there? His eyes bled red at the edges and his hair has fallen into shambles, clothes mucked up with spilled coffee and wrinkles in every possible place. His hands trembled (and his accent did, too), his voice deepening and threatening with every uttered syllable.  

 

Was this what it was like to shatter marble? Was this what it's like to break something unbreakable, something pristine and perfect, so perfect, that the sight of its ruin was hard to understand? 

 

Was this the sight of fury, true fury, for the first time?

 

No one could utter a word. They were breathless in wonder and fear and confusion. The dull lighting from electronic screens were the only things illuminating either person at the moment. It was the only thing showing distinctly the way their faces contorted and rearranged to become something different, something un-like them. 

 

“You pretend to be so shocked, Carvour, even you knew this was coming. Did you think learning to choke people in your sleep was part of standard CIA training?” Cynthia spoke, a taunt playing on her lips, twisting itself around her tongue. She cocked her head back to look at him better, the artificial light catching the twinkle of her simmering fire eyes. “This is part of his protocols, part of his job, his  _ contract _ . He will take care of himself in the field and he’ll come back as always.” 

 

Owen frowned, a quiet current of confusion and frustration overcoming him. He’s always known that his Curt’s skill set and decision making was along the lines of dangerous, reckless, and peculiar. He always seemed unhesitant to take the riskiest decision, even if the margin of success was near nonexistent. He was almost sacrificial, constantly on suicide mission mode, like that was the only option for the best outcome.

 

He remembered, the look on Curt’s face after a rough mission, when Owen would find him in the middle of a room he’s cleared out before he could walk in. He couldn’t count in his hands all the times he’s noticed the way he was near mechanical, almost routine with taking out targets, a kind of calm he knew he couldn’t possess, but Curt did. Curt was the only man he knew that didn’t question who the target was, what they’ve done, and how he should take them out. 

 

He always knew, somehow. Owen knew by the lingering look on other people’s faces, the way his own team was wary of his partner since day one, that he was something more than the typical special agent. He knew that his Curt wasn’t entirely the man he presented himself to be, not all fun and sweet. He never wanted to admit it to himself, never wanted to incline an ear to all the rumors that circled around his CIA operative.

 

But to hear it verbalized, to hear actual confirmation from the very woman who tugged the man’s strings around, unnerved him. It was a sucker punch. An admission of guilt. Divine confession.  

 

It twisted something wrong in his stomach.

 

“And what if he doesn’t, hm?” So he’ll challenge their notion that their paramilitary boy will somehow survive this. Owen hoped that they didn’t take him for a fool; he knew that this would be a hellish recovery, if there is even recovery to speak of. “You CIA lots tend to forget that your officers are humans, not machines.” 

 

“He always does.” Cynthia quipped, standing firm by her beliefs on their training. 

 

“Always  _ always _ leaves room for  **_error_ ** .” 

 

Their spectator could do nothing but step back with the way those words bled into the air. He roared. Owen Carvour roared. That was the best way to even describe how he sounded. It was a complete opposite of what they’d expect of him. His voice cracked in multiple places and bounced off the walls of the situation room, bounding through the government building, rattling its foundations and threatening to blow its core to ruin. 

 

And god, did he roar so mournfully. There was sorrow in his tone, pain twisting every syllable that twisted every onlooker’s heart. He roared for a man he's lost and cannot find, a love he cannot have, an uncertainty he cannot confront. He mourned for himself and the man damned by his government to hell, and he made sure all knew of it. They knew of it.

 

“This is Curt Mega we’re talking about, a man I’ve known for  _ 10 fucking years _ , and I— I  _ know _ him,  _ I would know him blind.  _ That man can’t and won’t make it if we leave him alone to sort himself out—” Owen threw his hands up and placed them on Cynthia’s sides, gripping her tightly and looking her square in the eyes. He could feel his own welling with another round of tears. He couldn’t bring himself to wipe them away. “What kind of fucking agency leaves its man to the wolves? What kind of leader leaves him to die?” 

 

“He won’t die—”

 

“Bullshit!” Her nonchalance aggregated him. Owen visibly bristled and leaned closer, whispering between them what no one in the room should hear, “He will and it’s on your hands.” 

 

Owen stepped back. His mind swelled with thoughts of what else to do, what else to say in this situation. He still had control of the room. He could berate her then and there if he wanted. He could demand answers from her as to why Curt kept it secret from him, asked her why she never told him, or what else could be done to rescue him. Owen could then and there resign from the mission if he wanted, go rogue and find his partner, maybe find evidence on his own to pursue.

 

He could do a lot, really. He could go against everyone’s orders just for this. Propriety be damned, Owen knew that ethics no longer applied to this situation. He could ask for Curt’s file now if he wanted. He could ask for anything.

 

But in the end, he was merely a man, and his human body was tired.

 

“I’m done here.” Owen swept his gaze across the room, at the mixed faces of the people who stopped to bear witness to what’s going on, and nodded at Cynthia. He stepped past her and made his way down the staircase to the side, eyes staring straight ahead towards the exit, where light from the hallway poured in to greet him. 

 

* * *

 

He wandered around New York a bit after that. He drove around aimlessly and weaved through traffic, taking in all the noise and bustle without thought as the radio jabbered on about something he couldn’t hear. The rain was pouring now, for some reason, the heavy raindrops slamming down on the windshield and roof like stones rather than water. Owen’s heart was slow as he gripped the steering wheel and drove, nevermind the honking horns around him and the fact that he was driving on the wrong side of the road.

 

There’s a lot on his mind. He’s reviewing his memories of his Curt, from that night in Geneva to the time they spent walking around New York. Was he a paramilitary officer then, when he first met him? How long has he been one? What has he done for his government, what kind of secrets did he have to bury? Owen turned the memories over and over his head, reassessing them, recalling their taste.

 

He saw the man in flickers. Curt Mega’s smile. His laughter. His wicked wit and his more wicked humor. That bright sparkle in his eyes whenever he was about to do something mischievous. The way his voice curled around certain words, how he said Owen’s name like a prayer. The way his fingers maneuvered over gun parts, dead bodies, Owen's own hands. The way his body moved in awkward rhythm only he understood. It quirked something funny in his heart.

 

Richard was not at home, which was unsurprising. The familiar truck wasn’t in its usual parking slot when he parked his car into the one next to it, staring ahead to look at the empty lot as the rain continued to pour. He’s sure that the man’s most likely out tending to the ranch he worked at upstate. He’ll probably wait for the rain to mellow out before driving back to New York. He could help but be sympathetic. Even Owen knew that traffic was hell when it was a rainy day.  

 

The lights were on in his kitchen. He didn’t recall leaving it open. He trudged up his front steps and found that the door was unlocked. He could hear the music playing inside, one of the playlists that was a few years outdated.  _ Four years _ outdated. Owen’s heart raced as he froze on the doorway, hand poised to open the door. 

 

Could it be? Curt could have probably escaped from the clutches of Chimera and managed to get his way back home. It was probably one hell of a journey to get back here from wherever he was. He already had a million different questions in mind, and somehow his wonderings about his job description didn’t bother him. Maybe Cynthia was right, he  _ can  _ take care of himself out there. His chest swelled and he grinned happily to himself as his hands trembled to grip the doorknob, twisting it open. 

 

There was an easy hum in the air when he stepped into the entryway and shut the door behind him. Suddenly he felt the cold of standing in the rain for an indefinite amount of time. Everything clung to him like a second skin and his body dripped with rainwater. It was not Curt’s humming, no, but it was one that he connected to a light Irish accent and a partially deaf man. Owen tried to hide his disappointment as Vincent emerged wearing a black apron, a brush in his hand and a tray in the other. 

 

“Boss! You’re soaking wet,” The brush clattered on the ground as he rushed forward to greet his superior, worry etched on his face as he approached. It was only then that Owen felt the cold bite of air as it sunk into his skin, his coat suddenly heavy from all the rainwater it’s collected from the trek up the porch steps. He fought back a sigh of relief as he’s rid of his coat. “Come on, I’ll make you a cuppa.”

Vincent gently guided him into the kitchen, soft Irish voice murmuring instructions for him to shed more of his layers, like the tie that’s still around his neck and the knitted vest he decided to wear for the day. The fabrics clung onto him like a sticky second layer, heavy and damp from rainwater while smelling just a little like it. Owen toed out of his shoes and absentmindedly pulled off his socks, balling them up and discarding them for Agent’s interested paws to scamper over.

The said orange kitty meowed in question as it pawed at one of the damp socks, and Owen turned to watch it circle the little ball of grey before laying a paw on it and then jumping away. Agent seemed to notice him staring because he turned to him and meowed louder, almost asking a question, tilting his head and staring at him with his bright eyes.

He was probably wondering about where Curt went, that smart little thing. Owen didn’t know (or want to know) how to answer that. He knew that his partner was in the hands of Chimera, and that there was no certainty that he would return to them alive or in one piece. Just the thought of retrieving Curt Mega in a body bag or in rags twisted something in his gut like a rusty knife would.

Vincent’s firm hand was the only thing guiding him to sit on the kitchen island. Owen listened for the way water burbled into a kettle as it was being filled, the clatter the steel made when it was placed on the stove, and the low hum said stove made when it was flicked on. He eyed Vincent, several years younger than he, watched the way he wrung his hands and walked all over the kitchen in search of something he couldn’t find. 

 

It was like watching those CIA agents scamper about in the situation room earlier. Why was it that younger, overworked people had that nervous brand of energy about them? Just watching the kid pace about the kitchen brought up ugly memories of earlier. Owen grimaced as he recalled the phone call, the way Curt’s voice quivered as he poorly tried to pass off as fine, the argument with Cynthia, and the reveal that his partner wasn’t exactly who he seemed. He recalled the way younger agents looked at him with both fear and awe, how they shooed away the moment he reared his head at any of them. 

 

How was he supposed to handle the news, anyway? With joy? Awe? Admiration? What exactly was admirable about Curt’s line of work? What kind of person would want in on it? Did anyone know that the man they admired was a cold-blooded killer, a political pawn of the American government? He shivered and ran his hands through his hair as everything came rushing, loud and boisterous as he looked at Vincent and—

“I learned something today,” Owen swallowed. He didn’t even know that his hands were shaking, and not because of the cold. “About my partner.” 

 

Vincent finally stilled. Owen only noticed now that the state of his hair was very much like a bird’s nest at the moment. Usually it was an organized kind of mess, like it was styled to look messy but not  _ that  _ messy, but now it just looked thoroughly went through. His glasses were skewed over his eyes and there was sweat beaded on his forehead. The first two buttons on his shirt were popped off and his sleeves were drawn up over his elbows. He’s been in this house for a while now, doing chores that Owen should’ve been doing. 

 

And he seemed too quiet. His lips were pulled tight, a straight line on his face. There was the barest furrow in his eyebrows. Vincent’s shoulders were slacked, relaxed somehow, and he looked as if he was processing the information. There was no register of surprise on his face as Owen watched him and—

 

He spoke before Vincent can open his mouth, “You knew.” 

 

There, that did it. Vincent came to life as he straightened, as if caught red handed in the middle of something, eyebrows disappearing into his messy hair as he struggled to explain himself. “It wasn’t exactly a state secret, sir—”

 

“You  _ knew. _ ” __

 

“Boss, everyone on the team was aware of this before we hopped onto this mission,” Vincent raised both of his hands in surrender, backing off a bit and pressing his back against the counter. The kettle was whistling a little next to his elbow, “We were all informed by Director Daniels before going into this mission. We were informed that both governments will deny all knowledge of this mission should either of you are compromised.” 

 

Owen’s lips curled downwards as he glared daggers at the Irish boy, “I find that to be bollocks when you all seemed to get one bit of information that I didn’t get.” 

 

In defense, Vincent’s arms flew up, “We tried telling you, boss! The man’s crazy dangerous, but it’s not like you’d believe us if we said that he was one of those paramilitary folks.” 

 

There’s silence between them. Vincent crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on the counter, unsureness on his face. Owen stared at him until he became uncomfortable and looked away, to some spot on the floor. There was a downwards tug on his lips. He pouted. Owen knew he meant it. He didn’t mean to be rude to the kid. He had nothing but good intentions, anyway. 

 

Owen sighed defeatedly and put his head in his hands. Of course they knew, everyone knew, didn’t they? The rumors were always there. The signs were present. People would look at Curt warily whenever he walked past. There was no doubt that he was some kind of non-special agent, a different kind of spy that was far more dangerous than the common operative. Owen was just too blind to it out of choice, deciding to be deaf to those warning whispers to pay attention to the facet he preferred to look at. 

 

He heard Vincent’s whisper across the stretch of silence between them, “Nothing changes, you know that boss? He’s still the guy you’ve known.” 

 

“Is he really?” Owen slowly raised his head and stared Vincent straight in the eye. The kid visibly flinched. “I’ve known him for a decade now, Vincent,  _ a decade, _ and he never said a word about what he did. What he had to do. Do you ever wonder why, Vincent? Do you ever wonder why he’d do it?”

 

Vincent shrugged innocently, “I can think of a lot.” 

 

“They’re pawns, Vincent! Blood on their hands!” Owen frowned as Vincent stepped back in worry, “They’ve manipulated third world countries to bend to American will since 9/11! How did I not know? How come none of you said a word?” 

 

“Slow down there, sir, sit down,” He didn’t even know he was standing again, but he was. The kettle was whistling loudly now as Vincent spun around to shut it off. The boy tilted his head over his shoulder as he spoke, “Look, I’ll make you a cuppa, I swear, I’ll explain everything, okay?” 

 

* * *

 

Alright, he can explain this to the boss.

 

Here’s the context: Months after the fiasco in Cologne, it was finally confirmed that Vincent Myers could not return to active duty… yet. That yet was merely an additional detail made a few years after this incident, but that was not the point. He was bummed out when he heard that. Vincent always wanted to be part of the field, maybe collect a few cool mission stories before becoming a sage trainer in one of the MI6’s many training sites. That would’ve been a good early retirement plan. He’d probably even buy a summer cottage for himself with the pay he’d rack up.

 

So it really got him when he found out that his disability would keep him from the field. At first he wanted to be mad at Owen, but in the long run, what good would that do to him? He’d still be deaf. Owen would still feel guilty. Nothing good would come out of this anger. It wasn’t his fault in the first place. Neither of them knew that there was a bomb involved in the whole mission. No one was in the know about it.

 

Victoria Daniels, their superior, gave him two options: a discharge package deal with good compensation and monthly pension, or a desk job in Vauxhall Cross. While somewhat skeptical of getting a good career out of it, Vincent chose the latter, unable to leave the industry when he was still so new in it. Daniels merely gave him a frown and his therapy schedule before leaving his hospital room.

 

So he became a missions coordinator, a damn good strategist at that. He fed information to handlers and took raw data from agents spread across the entirety of Europe. He picked which agents were best for certain types of operations, and had every one of their handlers in his pocket for quick and easy work. Becoming a coordinator was probably the closest he’d get to the field, and he relished every moment of doing his job.

 

Now here’s the part we’ve all been waiting for. Once, Vincent found a dossier turn up in his file, a missing operative’s report that is usually sent to all the major intelligence agencies across the globe. The file number and date of receiving were stamped on the front of the paper, and he quickly perused it for its details. Missing CIA paramilitary officer. Middle East. Somewhere along the Syrian border. Last seen during an operation in Idlib. 

 

Signs point to ISIS.

 

Interested, he flicked to the next page to look at the provided file of the officer. It’s unsurprisingly redacted, with little to no information to work with besides a name, alias, and position. He froze when he stared at the photograph that came with the file, thumb going over the photo paper as if it’d confirm what his eyes were seeing.

 

The file said that this man’s name was Nicholas Carter. He knew it was Curt Mega.

 

Vincent immediately got on his computer and typed in the name of Owen Carvour, checking the database for details on his current whereabouts. Green lettering told him that he was on recreational leave, most likely per the orders of Daniels, after a particularly rough mission in Belarus. He chewed on his lower lip and adjusted the glasses on his nose bridge as he contemplated on whether or not he should take the phone and dial up Daniels—

 

He didn’t even know that Curt Mega, Owen Carvour’s partner, was a paramilitary officer. Who knew, honestly? He never met him in person, but he’s known enough from snack room and backchannel chatter that he was phenomenal in the field. He understood that Curt Mega was not a man to mess with, that he was damn good at what he does, and—

 

Did Owen know? Was he aware that Mega was a paramilitary man? His nose scrunched up as he recalled the bitter memories the man connected to the term. He remembered Manchester, the IRA, all the rants and off-hand comments Owen would make about it. Sometimes he’d talk about how much he also hated the special forces/paramilitary teams of the United States. Sometimes he’d talk about the moral ethics of it.

 

So maybe he didn’t know. That hurt Vincent to know. This was some kind of ironic twist to this whole life of his that he was not ready to confront. He’s sure that Daniels was already aware of this and was leaving the decision making to him. Of course, he could give the mission to someone else, but it didn’t feel right, and he knew that Owen would catch wind of it either way. There was no way he could let this information slip past him, no way he could let anyone else know about it. 

 

Slowly, Vincent stamped out the file, signed it, and set it down on the “discard” pile. 

 

* * *

 

The rain was a torrential downpour, loud and superior over the seemingly distant clamour of New York’s evening rush hour. It was the only thing that filled the silence between Owen and Vincent.

 

Vincent turned away from him, maybe ashamed or guilt ridden by what he had to admit to Owen. There was a dusting of pink in his cheeks. If he could see clearer, he’d say that there were tears. The steam of the tea cup in front of him brought the smell of chamomile to Owen’s nose, but he didn’t feel like drinking it anymore. In fact, he didn’t feel like consuming anything at all. 

 

He turned and went through the door, deciding on venturing out into New York. It’s good that Vincent didn’t even dare to stop him from leaving, smart lad. The cold bit into his clothes and sunk into his skin and bones, but he didn’t pay much mind to it. Owen didn’t even bother with bringing a jacket, letting his shirt cling to his skin as he continued down sidewalks, over pedestrian lanes, ignoring the hustle and bustle of other New Yorkers scampering about to get away from the evening downpour. 

 

He found himself in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral a few moments later. It was a shock that he actually knew how to get there, since he was relying on his feet to guide him to somewhere he can sit down and think. Everywhere, the bright fluorescent lighting of nearby buildings and passing cars bounced off its old marble facade, casting shadows that spoke of its imposing silhouette. The twin spires stretched into the black abyss as if reaching to touch its hiding stars. Its arches curved light to make the cathedral look bigger, a time bubble suspended, an artifact of its own era. 

 

He passed through its gilded doors and into the cool air, ignoring the immediate shiver that came to wrap itself around him. He was immediately welcomed by vaulted ceilings and too bright lighting. The arches above his head seemed impossibly tall, with miniature chandeliers hanging on bare threads to the ceiling. Owen took a moment to bask in the largeness of the cathedral, ignoring for a moment the cold biting into his skin, before his feet directed him to a pew in the back parts of the cathedral.

 

There were clusters of people about the cathedral. An altar boy hurried past him with his robes in his arms, his squeaky oxfords quietly making noise on the marble floors. A couple in the distance was admiring the architecture, the lady holding up her camera to take a photo of something she found pretty. Some groups were taking selfies with their phones high in the air. Few sat on the pews and stared ahead at the altar in silence, most of whom were elderly.

 

Owen noticed a priest approaching him with a towel in his hand, a fine linen one that was most likely used during actual mass ceremonies. He could even see the red embroidery on the thing, some lettering dotting it that he couldn’t make out. The priest was a rather small person, with a round figure and chubby cheeks, wearing black robes with a rosary clipped to his belt. He considered if it was alright if he slid out of the pew and back into the rain when the priest appeared next to him, offering the towel, even going so far as reaching over to pat his hair dry of rainwater.

 

It was only then that the cold finally caught up to him and he rolled his sleeves up to expose his arms. He shivered as he tried to find anything else to dry himself, making an effort not to lock eyes with the priest in front of him. Owen tried taking the towel but the priest appeared to avoid his movements, and he sat there to allow himself to be dried before the towel was set aside. 

 

There was silence for a while as they both sat. There were no saints on the altar of St. Patrick, merely an elegant altar covered in embroidered cream linen. Owen tilted his head to gaze upon the stained glass windows depicting popular saints, trying his damned hardest to recall who they were from countless years in Catholic boarding school.

 

“You don’t appear to be a wandering tourist,” Finally, the priest spoke, his voice a faint and hushed whisper that seemed to bounce off the walls. Owen looked around to see if anyone noticed their conversation, “A wandering soul? More likely.” 

 

He finally turned to look at the priest. He had beady eyes and the beginning of crow’s feet around them, other lines just starting to appear on his face. He had bright green eyes, the same kind of green that reminded him of Vincent’s, so he turned around and stared ahead instead of making any further observations.

 

Through minute shivers, he muttered, “If you’re here to offer me some bible verse, save it.” 

 

“No, I wouldn’t dare.” The priest immediately brought both hands up in mock surrender, leaning back and scooting away a little. His eyes flitted over Owen unsurely, and Owen let him, as if he was assessing a wounded animal and not an actual person. After a moment, he put his hands down and retreated into himself.

 

Silence stretched between them. The priest merely dipped his head and clasped his hands together, as if in pious prayer or deep thought. Owen turned towards the altar and eyed the way the columns behind it arched upwards into a ceiling he cannot see. He watched the distant blobs of people disappear and reappear in his peripheral vision. He wondered if they were plagued by their own problems, if they were weary and troubled and brought to this cathedral like him.

 

Owen was never a devout Catholic. His parents tried to make him and his siblings religious, and perhaps he was for a moment, until he entered the intelligence industry. He was supposed to have some sort of faith in some higher being that would save him upon his last breath, but that simply waned as time passed. Maybe there was something about seeing child sex trafficking rings, terrorists, and grotesque crime scenes that made him lose faith in a benevolent being.

 

But he's drawn to this place of worship, nonetheless. He always found some form of serenity in big, old institutions like these. Holy doctrines and rituals be damned.  _ This  _ had to account for the last shreds of religious devotion that still clung to his system. He could sit down and appreciate its grand architecture and let go, allow his weary body to sink and unravel in the hallowed caverns of this cathedral.

 

He allowed everything to sink in. His partner was gonna die. His partner was a government mandated killer. His partner was made of so many facets that contradicted itself. His partner was Curt Mega, and Curt Mega was all of the above and then some. The complexity of their relationship and the differences in their moral standings was only appearing before Owen now, and he had no clue what to do with all this information but let it simmer and bury itself deep in his chest. 

 

But that's still his Curt, right? Still his Nicholas Carter. Still his Curt Mega. Still his… government property, God what a term. He was still his husband and partner and still his, still —

 

Still his paramilitary officer.

 

His paramilitary boy.

 

Owen leaned back against the pew. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know what move to make after this. It’s a stalemate, isn’t it? Annoying. 

 

Owen turned to his side and furrowed his brows, “Why are you still here?” 

 

The priest turned to him and smiled warmly, “God works in mysterious ways, son, and now He’s telling me that I need to be here for you.” 

 

“I’m allowed to sit by myself.” 

  
  
“I know,” The priest blinked at him calmly, “But it never hurts to sit with a friend.” 

 

* * *

 

There was something about churches and grand old places of worship that seemed to wring him dry of other emotions, because by the time he stepped on his porch, he was utterly exhausted. The rain has already stopped pouring, leaving the smell of wet concrete and thick city air all over New York. He blindly keyed in his keys to the lock and fumbled a little, awkwardly shifting in his borrowed coat. The priest made sure he had it on him before he stepped out of the church.

 

Richard Big’s truck still hasn’t returned to its usual spot, and given that it’s a quarter past 10, it’s safe to assume that he’s holed up for the night somewhere in the upstate place he works for. Owen passed a hand through his hair as his watch chirruped with the notification that his heat signature has been identified in the safe house. Vincent’s has left half an hour ago, giving Owen the reassurance that he didn’t have to confront the kid a second time for the night.

 

He stumbled into the living room to shed his semi-dry shirt, putting it on a crumpled heap on the floor. Agent was curled up in one of the throw pillows of the couch, a bright orange tuff contrasting the white of the cushions. He raised his head as his sleepy ears twitched, blinking twice before licking his paw and running it over his ears. Owen smiled fondly and reached over to scratch the underside of the kitten’s cheek, listening to him rumble loudly in satisfaction.

 

He left his phone here, it seemed. There it was next to a plate of food and a small note simply saying, “Please eat. I’m sorry. -Vincent” on the kitchen counter. He gingerly picked his phone up along with the plate, studying its screen as it beamed to life and showed him his latest notifications.  

 

A missed call from an unknown number. Huh. He simply did not have the energy for that.

 

He deposited it in his trousers’ soggy pocket, slipping the plate into the refrigerator. Owen was in no mood to eat anything. His stomach just couldn’t handle it tonight. He slumped up the stairs and emerged in their (he should say his) bedroom, shimmying out of his pants and setting them on the floor. City lights filtered through the windows and spilled onto the bed, and he looked at that for a moment before flipping over to the other side and pawing over the bedside table. His hand made contact with a familiar object.

 

“Background check.” Owen murmured to the hologram projector, pulling it from the bedside table. It gleamed in the moonlight as it whirred to life upon recognizing his voice, “Curt Mega.” 

 

The projector hummed and flickered through thousands of different faces, most of which he didn’t recognize, few he did, before it stilled in a familiar visage. Blue tinted holographic view depicted the same man, with bright eyes and a tuft of hair coiffed back. He had a small smile on his face, almost shy, with his name and the following words underneath:  **_[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION REQUIRES LEVEL 7 CLEARANCE]_ **

 

Owen slumped back into the pillow dejectedly, now understanding why that’s the case. He clutched the hologram projector in his hands and tried to read the words over and over again, swallow their meaning in its entirety, making sense of the severity of the situation he’s gotten himself into.

 

And, despite himself, Owen slept. 

 

* * *

 

“Carvour, do you read me?”

 

Owen shook himself out of a daze and back into reality. His head was tilted to the sky, staring at the brilliant light blue that stared back at him. Huh, he had been daydreaming again. That had been happening more recently, getting lost in his own thoughts, most of them about the man in the Middle East. There was a twang of something in his chest from just thinking that thought. Owen had no shame in admitting he missed the man, especially since he had gone radio silent recently. 

 

This was a standard Europol mission, as standard as all the others he’s been through in the past four years.The procedure was the same as always: get into the den of the latest sex trafficking ring, look for any victims, and get them out as safely as possible. If they find any lackeys or any of the main people of the ring, they have to be subdued, arrested, and taken in alive. That part of the mission was constantly stressed in the briefings. Alive meant they can suffer with the consequences of their actions rotting in a cell. Death meant a sweet escape from all of that. 

 

The agent’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts once more, a familiar Irish accent that he immediately connected to a name. Vincent Myers here sounded cold, a little cold for his tastes, but this is the field. They’re in the middle of an operation; there was no time for casual talk. “Agent Carvour, are you there? Do you read me?”

 

Owen raised his watch to his face. “Yes, I’m here, sorry about that.”

 

Vincent huffed quietly into the microphone, the kind that mission handlers typically reserved to mean “quit being incompetent.” For a moment Owen was worried that he’s pissed off the poor guy when he carried on as if he hadn’t heard Owen’s apology. 

 

“Our intel says that the crate the Haspel Ring is using is in this shipyard. Switch your receiver to earpiece mode, I’ll be guiding you through the yard.” Owen complied with the man’s request, pressing down on a button on his watch that moved Vincent’s voice into his ear. There he could hear the low hum of the computers, the quiet clicking of keyboards, and the murmurs of other onlookers. He lowered his arm and started towards the maze of crates.

 

“Head in, take a left, then an immediate right.” Left. Right.

 

“Go about 30 meters straight, then left.” Forward. Left.

 

“Take a right and—” Right.

 

Owen paused, bringing his hand to his earpiece. He crouched behind one of the many crates in case anyone came up to him, other hand resting on his waist where his gun was. “Hello? Agent Myers? Vincent? Are you still there?”

 

His voice returned to Owen’s ear, yet far colder than before. It sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. “I’m here, Carvour. Keep going.”

 

Owen moved forward, rather unsurely, pushing ahead despite the sea of near-identical crates looming before him. He waited patiently for his next direction, wondering if it was appropriate to ask Vincent where he went and if there was something wrong. Now that he thought of it, he can’t exactly remember the full details of the mission, and he thought of getting a quick run through in case the information in his mind was not the same as the information in the briefing dossier. 

 

“Go left. You should be moving faster, you don’t want to be  _ too late _ .” Left. Run.

 

“Three rights. You won’t be able  _ to save him _ .” Right. Right. Right. Have to save him. Wait, who was “him?”    
  


“One more left. You should have protected him. This will be on your hands  _ because it’s your fault _ .” Left. Stop.

 

Owen came face to face with a large shipping container, nearly identical to all the others surrounding it. It was blue. There was a faded company logo in the top left corner, a snake curled into a sleeping position. If he were anyone else he wouldn’t even give it a second look. From inside, Owen heard faint sobs. This must be it. He turned off his receiver. He knew he would be reprimanded by Vincent for that, but to hell with that. 

 

He stepped forward and opened one door of the crate, gun in hand as the creaking of the metal door bounced off of the artificial walls all around him. Owen could now see the source of the sobs, a lean figure in a corner sat on a thin blanket instead of the mattress that occupied the other corner. It was curled into a ball, arms wrapped around knees that had been pulled close, ratty t-shirt, boxers, and a familiar jacket hanging loosely from its gaunt form. Outside the container, seagulls squawked all around him. 

 

He tilted his head up. Seagulls. The vultures of the ocean. 

 

They hawked and loomed and watched with their damned beady eyes, hollow with no meaning and no reason to their insistence. They seeked something Owen cannot give them, as if lurking to swoop down and capture what they find. They came in clusters with all their white and grey plumage and orange beaks, watching, spectating, unblinking.  

 

They watched, unbothered, as the scene played out, and Owen wanted to scream just to watch them scamper. He steeled himself and gave them one finally glare before turning back to the mission at hand and opening the other door.

 

No.

 

_ No. _

 

_ Fuck. _

 

The added light in the dingy container revealed the identity of the huddled figure, body unrecognizable, at least to anyone but him.

 

It was Curt.  _ His _ Curt.

 

He put his gun down, maybe even dropped it. He didn’t know, he couldn’t even  _ process  _ what his eyes are seeing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How did his Curt end up here, in  _ their _ hands? He hadn’t even recognized the man upon first glance; he had probably lost nearly 45 kilos, he was covered in grime, and his hair had long grown past his military-style undercut to a point where it was matted against his skull. Owen inspected his partner’s shaking form closer. He wished he hadn’t. 

 

Owen took in the details of Curt’s form and the sight he was greeted with made him want to hurl. Curt looked as if he had gone three rounds with an MMA fighter and lost them all. All he could make out was a blotched mess of purples and reds and greens. There were shapes resembling that of fingers and hands. His eyes fell on Curt’s ankles, finding his flesh further marred by circles of raw skin enveloping each of them, not the kind received from excessive struggle against restraints, simply from extended time in them. 

 

In an instant his mind told him that he was handling someone freshly tortured, but even then something was nagging him as wrong about this whole issue. The mission briefing echoed over and over in his mind, and his guts insisted that there was another layer behind this. Owen took a step into the crate.

 

“...Curt?” Owen asked with a tentative voice, trying his best to block out his need to not rush to the man and collect him into his arms.

 

The quiet sobs that had persisted through this entire endeavor abruptly stopped as Curt froze. Curt stood slowly, as if being careful to not open poorly healing wounds, furiously wiping tears from his face. As Curt’s face came into view, Owen’s heart shattered once more. There was a fresh bruise on his left cheek and the distinct hand imprint around his throat.  _ How could anyone do this to his Curt? _ Owen watched dumbly as the rest of the scene played out. 

 

Curt straightened his “clothes”, if the rags he wore could even be called that. The clothes hanging from Curt’s body were ragged and looked to be at least two sizes too big. The shirt he was drowning in seemed to have been white at one point, but had become dark with grime and splotches of red along the neckline. His boxers were hanging off of his hips, revealing to Owen another hand shaped bruise on Curt’s bony right hip. The final item that Curt wore was a jacket that was even larger than the rest of his clothes, sleeves ending at the tips of his fingers. The jacket was a familiar brown color, more worn than it would have gotten in just the time that  _ they _ had his Curt. Horror donned on Owen. Oh,  _ Jesus _ . That was  _ Owen’s _ jacket.

 

At last, Curt met his gaze for a moment, eyes still red and puffy but conveying no clear emotion, not even recognition. Owen’s horror at the scene in front of him multiplied as Curt slid Owen’s jacket off of his shoulders and confirmed another one of Owen’s fears. Owen caught a glimpse of the inside of Curt’s right forearm and the multitude of poorly healing track marks that littered it. Curt was right-handed.

 

Curt moved his hand to his crotch, palming himself through his threadbare boxers while making his way towards the mattress. He sunk his knees onto the mattress, wincing as he agitated the bruises on them when he spread them apart. Curt grinded his hips forward into his hand as he looked back to Owen.

 

“This is all your fault.” Owen stepped back as he realized what was going on. Curt was not speaking, no, he hadn’t  opened his mouth. His lips were sealed shut but he stared, almost gawking at Owen. The voice seemed to come from all over. 

 

_ BZZZZZZZT _

 

“I’m sorry.” Owen managed to say as the voice around him screamed _ — _

 

**_“This is your fault!”_ **

 

_ BZZZZZZZT _

 

Those seagulls, those wretched sea vultures. They’ve perched themselves around the container, on the rope lines, the edges of overhead containers, the doors. They stared at Owen with their beady eyes, twisting their necks in interest of the scene at play. He stepped back as their beaks opened and closed minimally, as if people murmuring, and clapped his hands over his ears as they got louder.

 

And when they finally,  _ finally _ opened their beaks fully, they screamed their verdict. 

 

_ Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault  _ **_your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault_ **

 

_ BZZZZZZZT _

 

Owen woke with a start, a scream leaving his lips with his body covered in a cold sweat and his face dripping with tears. One hand was already gripping the handgun that was stashed (Curt stashed it) on his bedside table. Realizing he was holding it, he let go and sat up to grab his phone. For fuck’s sake. His instincts were getting the better of him. The phone clattered multiple times from how damp his palms were, and he struggled to grip it as his whole body trembled. Through teary eyes and shaking hands, he saw that the display informed him that it was 2:54 AM on Wednesday, 26 June. It’s hardly been 24 hours since he last heard from Curt. It’s hardly been 24 hours since anything, really.

 

He forced a breath out of himself as he laid back in bed, curling up and pulling at his hair. The strands wrapped themselves around his fingers as he curled into himself and took several deep breaths in and out, desperately trying to ground himself. The projector must have turned off some time ago, warm metal felt against his belly. His back was so cold. Owen felt himself tremble harder as tears slipped out of his eyes.  _ It wasn’t real it wasn’t real false alarm false alarm  _ **_false alarm_ ** _ they don’t have him you don’t know that yes I do this is the job this is how it went in  _ **_all of those fucking_ ** _ Europol jobs I’m sorry I’d never let that happen to him I can’t slack off like that I can’t I can’t I can’t I already did I already did I’m sorry Curt this is all my fault I’m sorry you could’ve protected him and you didn’t it’s your fault I’m sorry it’s your fault I’m sorry it’s  _ **_your fault it’s_ ** _ — _

 

_ BZZZZZZZT _

 

Owen froze as he heard the sound of the doorbell, forcing himself out of his panicked state. He slowly raised his wrist up to look for the notification on his watch. Unknown heat signature. Who the hell was knocking on doors at three AM? Urgent news about work had a habit of disturbing his rest, what could MI6 or the CIA possibly want at this hour of—

 

Curt. News about Curt. 

 

_ BZZZZZZZT _

 

Owen jumped out of bed, rushing to the door to pick up the cardigan hung on the back of it. He scrubbed his face clean of tears as he made a loud, blind scramble down the stairs, probably waking up Agent in the process. He got one look at himself in the mirror and saw that he was a wreck, with red eyes and frazzled hair and puffy eyes. Fuck it, he can make an excuse. 

 

Owen grabbed the candlestick at the side and swung the door open. He was disappointed upon realizing that he was not greeted with the sight of an agent with a briefing tablet. Instead, he saw a boy who, if Owen had to hazard a guess was 18 at the oldest, that he didn’t quite recognize. Irritation rose up his chest as his lips twisted downwards. 

 

Who the fuck was this?

 

“H-Hello, Mr. Carter, sir. I’m Pim Meadowbrook; I, um, I work with your husband? At Bread & Brew?” Oh. Owen slackened his hold on the candlestick. Curt had briefly mentioned that name,  during one of the times he’d actually tell Owen something about his day. He was very sparse with details, other than that the kid always referred to Curt as ‘Mr. Carter sir’ which firstly, seemed like a bit much and secondly, had now transferred to Owen. Joy. This is just what he needed at this time of the night.

 

Wait. How did this literal child find his address? Safehouse addresses were kept in encrypted files at the Langley database under a high security clearance. The only person who had found them here that didn’t have clearance was… the intruder. Another thought dawned on Owen; he had never seen this kid before in his life, only heard the name. He could look like anything to Owen, so who’s to say that this blond twink wasn’t only pretending to be Curt’s coworker, but that he’s actually working for Chimera?

 

Better to be safe than sorry.

 

Owen tightened his grip on the candlestick and spoke carefully. “Yes, Nick has mentioned you.”

 

“I was just worried about Mr. Carter. He hasn’t been showing up for work, and normally I’d think he was just sick but I, I asked Eli and, and he looked real worried and avoided the question.” Meadowbrook was a faucet with words bumbling out of his mouth, fidgeting with his hands and wringing them together, not daring to look Owen in the eye. His gaze darted down towards the pavement, the hallway behind Owen, then briefly looking at him before turning away. This assassin was really hamming up the “small innocent child” act. “Can… can I come in and sit down?” 

 

“No. It is 3 AM and I would like to go back to sleep as soon as possible, if you don’t mind?” Owen said coldly. The blond on his doorstep looked slightly taken aback, like he had been  _ expecting  _ to be let in. Did he really think he could pull that on a seasoned MI6 agent with a near decade of field experience under his belt? Owen wanted to laugh. 

 

“Please, sir, I just wanna know what’s going on. I just— I’m worried about him.” Christ, he had to give him something or he was going to have an enemy agent outside his house all night. 

 

Owen ran over the details of the cover story he’d been instructed to tell any overly nosy neighbors and the like. He obviously couldn’t tell anyone outside of the agencies the truth, as that information was highly sensitive and even more highly classified. Shortly after arriving from Langley, Cynthia had given him a brief file stating the reason for Nicholas Carter’s sudden departure from 50th Avenue. 

 

The official story was that Nick and Nate got into an argument, nothing major in the grand scheme of things, and Nick lost his temper and stormed out. Nate was not concerned about his husband’s disappearance; this has happened before and he always goes to the same place to cool down for a few days: his mother’s. Nate received a text from his mother-in-law an hour after Nick stormed off saying that he was there and he was alright, but it seemed he would be staying a little longer than usual. 

 

God, if only. Owen was far beyond worried for Curt at this point, he was  _ petrified _ . And he couldn’t even show it. He had to play the part of the unconcerned husband when he wanted the curtain to come down already.

 

“Uh, sir? Can you tell me what’s going on with Mr. Carter, please?”

 

Owen blinked, and realized that he’s spaced out again. Damn it. Meadowbrook was looking at him now, near blatantly staring at this rate, a tiny furrow in his eyebrows. Oh, that’s right. He probably looked like shit right now. Owen wondered if the cover story would hold given the story state he was in. Oh well. To hell with it. 

 

“Well, if you  _ must _ know,” Owen took a small amount of pride in seeing the kid’s face flinch, “We had a bit of a row and Nick lost his temper. Stormed out and went where he always goes when he gets like this.” 

 

_ You have no fucking clue where he is. Shut up. _ “He’s staying at his mother’s for a few days, she’s already messaged me about it, said he’ll probably be there maybe for a week?” 

 

_ Who knows what they could do to him in a week? Shut  _ up _. _ “He gets like this sometimes, it’s truly fine.” 

 

_ Lying through your fucking teeth, Carvour.  _

 

Meadowbrook frowned, as if not understanding what was going on, pressing a bit. “If it’s really not a big deal, why wouldn’t Eli give me an answer?” 

 

_ Because you’ve never met Eli in your life. _

 

“I asked him not to. I didn’t exactly desire my marital problems to be announced to the entire staff and clientele of my husband’s work. Guess it doesn’t matter now, you kids are always telling each other everything without a second thought.” Owen wanted this child soldier away from his house so he could hopefully catch a few hours of dreamless sleep.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I promise I won’t tell!”  _ Please leave _ .

 

“Thanks. Now be a good pup and run along home, some of us have important work in the morning.” And with that, Owen stepped back from the entrance and slammed the door shut before the assassin could make anymore attempts to make it into his home. 

 

He waited patiently against the door and watched as the shadows of Meadowbrook’s feet receded and disappeared from the doorstep. God, the audacity of some amateurs to attempt looking innocent. Is that what they train them to do these days? Utterly obnoxious. It’s an easy way to get killed. Owen set the candlestick down on the stand and ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply and trudging his way down the hallway.

 

As Owen made his way back to the stairs, Agent walked up to him and butted his head against Owen’s leg with a small meow. Owen picked him up and stared at the kitten’s grey eyes, the way he calmly remained in Owen’s hands. Agent licked his nose and squirmed a little, his hind legs hanging in the air, and Owen quickly nestled him in his arms as if holding a baby. The kitten meowed as it nuzzled Owen’s thumb in satisfaction. Carefully, Owen made his way up the stairs and into the bedroom, depositing Agent on the pillow next to his. 

 

Owen watched for a moment as the kitten licked himself clean. Do cats keep bad dreams away? He’ll find out tonight. 

 

* * *

 

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ ** **_  
_ ** Carvour, do you read me? 

 

**_YOU_ **

I am seriously getting tired of this shit, whoever you are.

 

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ ** **_  
_ ** This is about your partner

If you want him alive, you’d want to hear from me darling

**_YOU_ **

Piss off, Mclain. 

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ ** **_  
_ ** He’s upstate

I’ll send you a picture of the map if you want

It’s got this big X to mark the spot ;)

**_YOU_ **

Just hurry up and get this over with. 

 

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ ** **_  
_ ** Tough crowd

Anyway, here you go xoxo

[image sent]

**_YOU_ **

Wait, where is this?

This is literally in the middle of nowhere

Mclain? 

Hello??

 

**This number cannot be reached. Please try again later.**

 

* * *

 

He got the call at around 8 in the evening, when he was still halfway through his latest data package courtesy of the agents stationed across the country. Stephen sighed as he leaned back and stretch in his office chair. This was the third night in a row that he’ll be going overtime for the sake of the current emergency, and he would really like it if the coffee machine in the break room would drip enough coffee to power him through the night. 

 

Stephen was usually a level-headed mission handler, he can attest to that. He currently has at least 4 different domestic and international missions under his belt at any given time, and right now the one involving the legendary Owen Carvour was taking up his attention front and center. Now, he’s clearly not complaining, why would he anyway? It was a rarity to get to work with Owen, especially since that usually meant he would also get to work with Curt Mega. Being in the midst of two well-known operatives in the circuits was some kind of legendary.

 

Anyway, the phone call. He was perusing some data when his phone rang, and he absentmindedly pressed down on the speaker button. “Stephen Torres speaking.” 

 

The voice on the other side of the line was too familiar, “I’m going to get him.” 

 

“What do you mean you’re going to get him?” Stephen paused and frowned, mind stuttering to a stop. There was a lot of implications in that voice. He brought up his missions log and clicked through it to draw up the trackers on Owen. Both the watch and the ring were still in the 50th Avenue residence, which was good. He looked towards the office across him to see if Vincent was there. True enough, the Irishman was there. “Carvour, what’s going on?” 

 

“Mega. I’ll go get him.” There was finality in his words that made him shiver. He leaned back on his seat as he scrambled to think of anything to say to persuade the agent not to continue on with this risky mission. That was his job, right? Play handler. Guide the agents towards safety and success, whichever mattered more. Currently both did. “Don’t come looking for me.”

 

“We can talk this—” Stephen cursed as soon as the call ended, standing from his seat and immediately pacing. He stopped in front of his computer and cursed louder when he saw the two trackers disappear off the map. A notification warning him of this popped on his screen. Yeah. He knew. Thanks.

 

Fuck, he can’t go after Owen Carvour. Stephen gnawed on his nails as he continued pacing. He was only a man with the bare minimum of weapons training. He was more brain than brawn, in all honesty. Owen needed more than just one man for backup; did he even have any to begin with? This was a suicide mission in the making. This was exactly what he’s been trained to avoid.

 

Stephen scrambled to think of something to do to help him. With a flick of his wrist, multiple hologram projectors whirred on to display multiple interfaces pre-set to his liking. A global map depicting all the nearest operatives was on one projector, while the other displayed team movements and statistics. How was he supposed to protect him from his little office in New York? The nearest MI6 team he can trust to protect Owen was across the ocean, and the MI6’s presence in the region was thinly stretched over the East Coast.

 

He could always ask for help from outside of the MI6. It’s not beyond protocol to phone the police and tip them off to Owen’s general location. He can always ask for local law enforcement to keep an eye out for his man, though he would assume they aren’t equipped to handle the onslaught of an organized crime group without prior training. 

 

How about the CIA? Stephen gulped and looked around his room. The CIA was a rather powerful ally to have, especially in these trying times. His superior did tell him that should he needed their help, it was easy to phone them. Despite that, however, he’s terribly worried about the chance that they wouldn’t go after Owen. Everyone knew that the agency wasn’t pursuing Curt Mega. It was against the officer’s protocol. They wouldn’t dare touch him until solid evidence surfaced telling them where he was. 

 

He didn’t have the reach within the American agency to do anything out of protocol, which was terribly unfortunate. Stephen never really liked interacting with his American counterparts due to the fact that they would be so… blunt. Serious. Cloak and dagger. A bit morbid if he was being honest with himself. He avoided interaction with them as much as possible, and he terribly regretted that now that he knew no one who could help him twist fate.  

 

But he knew someone who knew how to pull the strings of the CIA to their favor.

 

Daniels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCENE SUMMARY: 
> 
> Owen is having a nightmare where he relives one of his nasty Europol missions where he had to break up a sex trafficking ring. To do so, he had to go through a sea port with lots of metal containers to find the victims of the supposed ring. Vincent assumes the role of his mission coordinator, also known as "The man in the chair." Something is strikingly odd about this whole mission, but Owen presses on nonetheless. He finds a container containing Curt Mega, who is possessing multiple wounds and signs of abuse. He blames Owen for the state he's in as seagulls flock them to echo Curt's sentiments. 
> 
> If you know anyone who is a victim of the trade, or if you witness any potential scenes of trafficking in real life, please contact your local authorities or call your local hotline. It would be a doozy to put all those numbers here and I haven't found a website showing all from all over the world.
> 
> So the notes:
> 
> \- Song is Blindness by Metric! Someone mentioned it and I gave it a listen and it was simply fantastic so please give it a listen!  
> \- Our word count is at 12,969 words. I have no idea how we got there. But it's there?  
> \- The woman who came to check on Owen is Simmons! They'll formally meet one day, we promise :)  
> \- Yes, Curt has been paramilitary since the very beginning. Research had to be done to put Curt in the current context and we had no clue how so we did some digging in the CIA career page. One thing lead to another and well... tada? (Side note: Something we discovered while researching this back in June was that the starting salary for a paramilitary officer is $68,000-$106,000/yr. So, if Curt's had this job for a decade... and has probably gotten raises in that time... let's just say that the dinner Curt paid for in Chapter 3 wasn't exactly affordable. Thanks for tuning in to "Useless Background Info with Lilly!")  
> \- I've been campaigning for angry Owen for the longest time and I am so definitely ready for it when the time comes to unleash this furious British madman  
> \- "I would know him blind" is a partial reference to a quote from Song of Achilles. God tier book, highly recommend.  
> \- Don't you just love the dabbles of MKO references all over the place? We do  
> \- After being made deaf by the blast in Cologne, Vincent became a very effective missions coordinator. Like, have you seen a man so good at threading missions into reality? It's mentioned somewhere in our notes that some of the missions he made were done by Owen himself.  
> \- The Nicholas Carter alias is Curt's permanent cover name per the rules of the CIA. You may refer to WIRED videos on Joanna Mendez for more information on how that scheme works.  
> \- The St. Patrick's Cathedral is a magnificent work of Gothic architecture that is conveniently a brisk walk from 50th Avenue. We'll be hearing from it soon :)  
> \- Confronting my weird relationship with Roman Catholicism came in view for that whole scene in the church. Projection? Very likely.  
> \- The dream sequence is Lilly's work! The last bit I edited because it ripped me in pieces and I just couldn't look at it for too long without needing to sit back and take a walk.  
> \- It would be a little nice to read the Italics of the dream scene
> 
> A little warning: Chapter 13 is gonna be a long boy. Will take some time. I hope you have the patience to wait!
> 
> As always, please leave your kudos and messages. Thank you!! 
> 
> \- fama crew


	13. spectre of my mortal soul [phase 1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I can explain my absence. 
> 
> I'll explain as we go along, but right now, let's just savor the moment that I'm back, babey! What an adventure I've been through. 
> 
> Originally, I meant to drop all of this chapter in one go, but the sheer terror of this word count prompted the team to agree to chop it to sizeable chunks. Think fun size but make it my twisted brand of sadism. You can thank me later. 
> 
> We can talk about how we've been doing, but now, chapter time! God this took ages to churn out. This'll be a rollercoaster so buckle up, buttercup!
> 
> We dedicate this entire chapter to Ashlyn, who's been carefully watching since Day 1. You rock, babe. Love you <3
> 
> Cailin and Lilly be gripping my hands tight now, and thank god I have two of them. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Swearing, mayhaps? But I mean, come on, this is a Cynthia segment.

**phase one: the devil walking in the daylight**

[Cynthia Houston]

 

_ Forgive me Father, for I am lost _

_ And all the trouble I have caused _

_ Now what will become of me?  _

 

_ I went down to the river _

_ I went down but the river was dry _

_ I went to the river and when I closed my eyes _

_ I saw a devil, walking in the daylight  _

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck do you mean you want our help?!” 

 

She swept her gaze upon the room, trying to catalog everything that was in it in a measly attempt to calm herself from the latest… well, tomfuckery. The office room they relegated her into was pretty spartan, a spare one hurriedly tidied up for her sudden arrival. There were only a desk and a few cabinets pushed back to one side of the room, a glass whiteboard on another with a couch right across it. There were blinds over the floor to ceiling glass next to the door, the only kind of privacy she could afford in this place, not like it was much of an issue. The hum of an air conditioning unit working overtime could be heard as quiet white noise. 

 

She only had a few things littered about that “spruced” the place up and made it her temporary office. First would be the laptop she had propped up on the desk. Second, the four hologram projectors around it that were humming with all sorts of information: two with a global map of ongoing missions, one with a live feed of the tracing protocol for Curt Mega (and now, Owen Carvour’s) trackers, and a final one of Stephen Torres, her latest headache. Another clear sign of her place in this office was the opened bottle of brandy set to the side and a half empty glass.

 

Cynthia Houston gave the last hologram projector a dry, menacing look. The poor mission handler looked cowed by her, and damn right he should be. She simply couldn't comprehend the headassery and sheer irresponsibility of the MI6 office that let them lose their primary agent. Torres clearly knew of that mistake and wouldn’t dare look her in the eye as he flitted about with something that she couldn’t see, probably trying to right the obvious wrong their office committed. His mumbling was senseless babbling, words meshed together in tongues that didn’t even sound like English. 

 

Cynthia sighed loudly and kept herself from snarling something obscene at the poor subordinate. It was pushing past ten in the evening. Victoria would have a word with her if she tried to scare off her MI6 men. She honestly did not have the energy to consider talking her way out of that conversation.

 

Torres tried to speak, stumbling on his own words as he tried to explain the situation. She rolled her eyes. Of course she knew about the whole situation; he’s been trying to explain it to her for the past half hour. Every second he used trying to babble like a child was seconds wasted in this time and age. She had half a mind to end the call and just do this by herself, but mere office manners kept her from doing so. Oh, the restraint she held for all the bullshit she takes. “Director Houston, please, I’m only doing this per the orders of Director Daniels. We have no means of contacting Carvour and we think now’s the time to consider sending in rescue—”

 

An hour or two ago, she was alerted by one of the agents in the main room that Owen’s trackers have gone offline, and that his last known location was in the 50th Avenue safehouse. Of course, before she was told, a team was sent out to scout the location, and traffic cameras around Manhattan were all under their control for them to look for where he was.

 

But she didn’t need them to follow the footage to know where he was going. Of course the British bastard was off to rescue Curt, clearly with little to no backup at his beck and call. Typical Carvour behavior. She couldn’t put it against him. 

 

Of course Torres was working on Victoria’s orders, that was expected of him anyway. Cynthia thought of their argument a few days ago, when she told her that she wasn’t going to send any rescue teams to get Curt unless solid information was found on his whereabouts. She knew that Victoria respected her agency’s protocols, hell, she approved, but now that opinion seemed to have changed now that her own agent was missing. It just felt wrong that Victoria’s name had to be evoked to make her change her mind about the rescue teams. 

 

Her gut twisted in itself as she thought of this damned job. She absolutely hated this, hated being told how to do her job, when she knew damn well how to do it. She had multiple awards from her time with the Special Activities Division, knew the protocols and training her officers underwent just to become who they were now. Going through the Farm and all the other boot camps meant some kind of transformation, becoming a weapon sharpened and placed at the disposal of national interests and security. There was even a joke about it, part of typical locker room talk, of how every paramilitary officer became property of the US government the moment they signed their work contracts.   

 

It wasn’t her fault policy prevented her from sending rescue parties. It also wasn’t her fault that the MI6’s primary agent in the operation decided to go off the grid thanks to that policy. 

 

But, she mused, they should have seen it coming. At the very least, she expected the MI6 to support his decision.

 

That did not appear to be the current case. 

 

“Listen here, Torres. Last I recall from our deal, we agreed to take care of our  _ own  _ agents. So I don’t give  _ two shits  _ about your request. Now I wonder how in the  _ flippity flappity fuck  _ you lost your agent when he was sitting in the goddamn house!” Cynthia snarled out, her teeth gnashing against each other with every word she said. The man jumped in his seat as she continued, clearly horrified by the show of power, and she knew damn well that she looked terrifying. The way he seemed to scramble back to do his work urged her to continue, “Don’t ask me to do your fucking job. Track him with those pathetic Q’s you have lying around and call back when you’ve managed to sort out your incompetence.” 

 

The call was cut after that, the hologram retreating into the projector with a nearly silent whir. Cynthia sighed and leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples with the sharp ends of her fingernails biting her skin. The fresh, bright pain briefly trampled that of her own head, forcing a relieved sigh out of her lips as she considered, thought, planned. It was unbelievable that the British lost their best agent in the midst of everything that’s happened. No one had a clear idea of where he’s going, nor when he would be coming back. No one apparently knew anything about his movements, even if it looked crystal clear to her. 

 

Before they caught wind of Owen Carvour going off grid, they received a data package from Mclain through the CIA database. It wasn’t much, hardly a megabyte worth of information, but it was wrapped in this complex encryption system that the programmers were rather wary of. It took some goading (and threats) to get them to do their work despite their initial worries of it being a trap. Simmons was currently poring over the information IT was decoding as it was loading before her, eyes going over the lines of information with rapidfire speed. 

 

Receiving the data package and finding out about Owen’s disappearance was no coincidence: the tides must have shifted in Chimera, and Mclain must have decided now was the appropriate time to send in new information. The two have been in contact with each other. She must have informed Owen somehow, which was why he disappeared, clearly with little to no backup. Cynthia knew she had to talk to Victoria about this, to see if sending a rescue team was viable as soon as the information was fully decrypted. This was the solid evidence she would need. Her mind was running a mile a minute just thinking of all that had to be done.

 

She tilted her head back on her chair until she heard the joints pop, relief spreading down her neck as she did. Cynthia sighed loudly.  

 

“Those British fucks are lousy for losing their man,” she remarked dryly, turning her head to eye Simmons. She nearly forgot that the officer was sitting there, perched on the office couch like a bird attempting to nest. Simmons’ face was drawn tight in concentration, eyes squinting a little on the screen, shoulders tensed. The arm of the couch had a notepad next to it, and mad scribbling was heard as she noted things down on it. Occasionally there was the clicking of a tongue and weary sighs. 

 

“Give him a break, ma’am.” Simmons drawled as she looked up from her own laptop after what looked like a long time, eyeing her steadily with a levelled gaze. Seeing her in person after what felt like a long time was a rather jarring sight, but a welcome one nonetheless. There was humor in her tone as she spoke, an attempt to lighten the mood, but the conflict in her eyes said otherwise. Her lips moved with mischievous snark, “MI6 is stretched in this territory as is. Perhaps they needed a lending hand.” 

 

“Don’t try me, Simmons, or else you’ll be getting lip too.” Those lips quirked up to a small smirk as she turned back to her laptop to go through the data package. What was the relevance of having it encrypted, anyway? Mclain probably did not trust them with this information, maybe she wanted to buy herself time to flee, or she was instructed by Chimera to give them a hard time. Whatever, Cynthia was not amused. “Have you gotten anything out of the data package Mclain left in the system?” 

 

Simmons looked up from her laptop once more, frowning, “This takes a while to parse through, ma’am.” 

 

Cynthia gritted. “Simmons—”

 

Simmons ducked down, back at the information package, almost reverently. “I’ll have everything fully decrypted and ready in an hour, Director Houston.”

 

“Great. Tell IT I want everything in 15 minutes.” Cynthia stood and collected her coat in one arm and her laptop in the other, ignoring Simmons’ surprised look as she crossed the room. She wanted to contact Victoria in the conference room in the situation room, where no one would deign to disturb her. She paused at the doorway and regarded the analyst for a moment before continuing, “We didn’t train your asses to read shit in an hour, Simmons. This is the CIA, not fucking kindergarten.” 

 

* * *

  
  


The situation room was rumbling with activity when she returned to it, despite the fact that it was past 10 in the evening. People still rushed about with their paperwork and paper cups of coffee, speaking rushed words that the simple bystander wouldn’t understand, and tapping on their keyboards as if their lives depended on it. The few who noticed her arrival greeted her for the evening before scurrying away to where they were supposed to be, and Cynthia couldn’t feel a bit of compassion for them as they passed. 

 

The lighting in the room was near hypnotic, with the blue of the large monitors on the wall and the multitude of monitors on the decks. The lighting overhead was barely sufficient to see much, given all the light that was already in the room, putting the place in a state of eternal nocturne. There was no warmth in this room, only cold, panicked energy, and that suited Cynthia just fine.

 

She made her way up the platform, her heels clicking on the metal of the steps, gripping the banister as she continued making her way into the conference room there. The glass was tinged to allow no one to look inside as she done her business, and the thick walls ensured no one could hear her as she cannot hear them. The lights here were a little bit warmer, but the furniture and design was still drab enough to put her in a state of hypnotic sluggishness. Cynthia sighed and sat down on one of the chairs, reaching down to loosen the straps of her heels to kick them away. 

 

Her laptop’s already booted up and ready to go when she called her. The ringing bounced around the room as she closed her eyes and massaged her temples, fighting back the stars in her eyes as they appeared. The last thing she ate was a small serving of chocolate pudding that Simmons brought up from the canteen. Before then she only had coffee for breakfast and skipped lunch entirely. The only thing that filled her stomach between arriving in New York and now, beyond the pudding, was the bottle of bourbon that sat on her desk. It was the only warmth that’s currently curling itself in her gut. 

 

When the call finally connected, she had to squint to get a better look at the woman on the other end of the line. The quality of the picture was grainy, but key details could still be seen. Amber light bounced off of the surfaces, illuminating the woman she called for in one moment and then disappearing in the next. The camera wobbled and bounced as it was adjusted, and  _ there,  _ Victoria sat with her lips drawn in a straight line. 

 

She was rather well-dressed for someone who was woken up at some ungodly hour of the night. Victoria Daniels had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, hastily made with a thick scrunchie. There was no makeup whatsoever on her face, revealing to her dark circles under her eyes and small nicks from missions of long ago. There was a bit of steam in front of her. Must be a cup of coffee. 

 

Victoria had a deep cut frown on her face, concern written all over her, when she spoke, “You look terrible.” 

 

Cynthia spared a glance at her own feed in the small box to the side. Her eyes had finally became bloodshot thanks to the migraine and lack of sleep. The frown on her face drew stress lines over her forehead. The circles under her eyes looked relatively bigger. Victoria was right; she did look like shit. Felt like it, too.

 

She dispelled whatever remark she had about herself to get back to the task at hand, “Torres said you spoke to him.” 

 

“It’s his prerogative to, anyway.” Victoria shrugged casually. It was true; the handler had to speak to Victoria before any major actions had to be made. Any updates about the current case had to go through her, as she was still Owen's main handler. Cynthia just wished that it wasn’t the case. She watched as Victoria rubbed her eyes with one hand as the other covered her mouth as she yawned around her words, “Had to be shaken awake by one of my guards when the call came in.” 

 

Cynthia’s eyes lingered on what was around Victoria. The soft hum of a car engine could barely be heard over the call, and buildings disappeared from view as she watched the feed. She eyed the stretch of twinkling water that could barely be seen in the background, the looming MI6 building. She turned her attention back to Victoria, who has been staring at her for all this time. 

 

She tilted her head back, squinting a little. “You’re flying over.” 

 

“I have to, or else C will have my arse.” Victoria chuckled, pulling back a rebel lock of hair from her face. She looked tired, just as stressed and weary about the whole situation. Cynthia curled her hands into fists until her nails dug into her skin. She held her tongue. These calls were monitored by both of their agencies. There was no time for sweet talk and intimacy. No matter how much she wanted it. “I just got the message from Stephen. I understand your denial to help, that was my fault. I'm sorry. How the data package going?” 

 

“I’m giving Simmons and IT 15 minutes to crack it. I’ll find out from her as soon as we’re done talking.” She held herself back from saying that she was actually running a scan on him, only because she knew that he would be going to where Curt was. She briefly turned to the side to see if anyone was on the platform. True enough, there was no one waiting for her outside, not even the mentioned agent. Cynthia leaned back in her chair and stared ahead at the giant screen, watching the blinking dot scatter about a map of the east coast. They still can’t find Owen Carvour. None of the traffic feeds could indicate where he went. None of the plate scans confirmed his whereabouts. The question came to her right after, “What are you gonna do to Carvour once he comes back from his suicide mission?” 

 

There was a shrill honk of the horn on Victoria’s side of the call, and she lurched back against the car seats as a breath was forced out of her. Cynthia quickly dialled down the volume as the sudden noise caused the pain in her head to spike. There was a sharp remark from someone in the camera's peripherals — Victoria's driver, maybe — and a brief exchange between him and someone else. There was annoyance on Victoria’s face before she returned to the conversation at hand. 

 

“Well, there’s no use to reprimanding him in the end, is there?” Her voice was soft and quiet, clear contradiction in the frown on her face. The feed glitched for a second but she was still there as the car lurched to a start. She continued, tone lilting, “We all do reckless things in the name of love.” 

 

Love. Cynthia grimaced. Of course this was a blind act of love. That was what everyone was expecting out of Curt and Owen at this point. They knew each other for so long, worked with each other, to the point that they have fallen for the other. It was no secret that they would do anything just to keep the other safe and sound even if it meant their own doom. They had no care for protocol and ethics the moment the other was threatened.

 

Cynthia sneered. They were lucky they could get away with it. People like her, like Victoria Daniels, like every other higher up she’s ever met and stared down, were locked in the bureaucratic hellhole of procedural paperwork and office politics. They did not have the same liberties as those who lived the life of danger on a daily basis. Perhaps that was the exchange for the lives they lived: comfort for restrictive rulebooks, danger for overlooked offenses. 

 

She didn’t know who had the better deal.  

 

“We do indeed.” Cynthia hummed, after a moment of further thought.

 

There was silence for a moment as both of them lacked anything more to say. Victoria looked away and at something that was on her lap, most likely her tablet, skimming the latest reports coming in from New York. She idly sipped her coffee and occasionally returned her gaze at the camera, offering a tiny, exhausted smile. Cynthia sat back and twiddled her thumbs, wondering what to say next. It was almost like the woman was next to her rather than across the pond from her. The call was still most likely being recorded by either agency’s programs. She really wasn’t in the mood to bypass it just to have a private moment with Victoria. 

 

The yelling match from earlier came to mind as she thought of something to say. Seeing Owen Carvour go off like that was… a sight, for lack of better words to use. She's never seen him so red, the flesh of his gums prominent with every word uttered. This was the first time she’s ever seen him actually mad, maybe the first one for everyone in the room, and it was a rather jarring vision. It was as if she was watching something so pristine and clean shatter and break under pressure, exploding into a million pieces with no one to pick them back up.

 

It was a little worrisome, now that it was connecting in her mind. Owen disappeared without a trace less than 6 hours after losing his mind in front of the CIA's New York office. No one had a clue of what mental state he was in, or how focused he was when he disappeared. He could go on a rampage, and who knew what he was fully capable of out there? Cynthia swallowed a lump in her throat and cleared her throat.

 

“I told him about Mega’s occupation.”

 

Victoria paused from what she was doing, taking in a sharp breath as she looked up from her tablet. Her jaw tightened as she searched Cynthia’s face for any sign that this was a joke or something, trying to assess the weight of that statement. Cynthia held her breath as she waited for Victoria’s analysis of the situation, waiting patiently until she leaned back and closed her eyes. The lights behind her window were now a little brighter, bright fluorescents, and Cynthia wondered how close she was to the airport.

 

“He didn’t take it well, did he?” Victoria breathed out, eyes fluttering open after a moment. Grim features danced over her face as she stared, level but piercing, a quiet request for honesty. As if she can lie about this.

 

“Hardly.” Cynthia scoffed, shaking her head as her mind conjured the images of a furious Owen Carvour. Was this what people felt whenever she ripped them a new one in front of their peers? Well. She couldn't say it was an enjoyable experience. Nor could she say experiencing it would change her ways. “Bastard even stormed out of here.” 

 

Victoria shook her head, due to exasperation or disappointed, she didn't know. “Give him a break, darling, not everyone would receive the news of their partner lying to them well.” 

 

Silence returned after that. Cynthia studied Victoria’s face as the car slowed to undergo inspection from the airport security. There’s quiet chatter from where the driver was, as well as Victoria rummaging through her bag for her MI6 ID. There was a minute sluggishness to her movements, too slow to be considered graceful, and the thought of her sleeplessness came back to Cynthia. She waited until the British director was cleared from inspection before she could ask.

 

“Do you think it was a mistake?”    


 

“To what, let him know?” Victoria tilted her head and quirked an eyebrow, “It was a necessary move to make.” 

 

Perhaps it was a necessary move to make. Owen Carvour, while being equal parts brilliant and charming, was also deathly oblivious to even the most obvious things about his partner. He seemed to be very good at turning a blind to whatever red flags he may have, despite what everyone around him would say about his partner. That, or he just willfully ignored everything and stuck to his own personal lie. Someone had to break the news to him someday. She just had to be the one who’d serve as the bearer of bad news. 

 

Did she regret having to be that person? No, not really. He was going to find out one way or the other that day, she just decided to cut to the chase. Protocols for their paramilitary operations officers made sure that they did not rescue them unless absolutely necessary. Owen needed to be aware of those protocols and why they were in place. She was only working along the boundaries of her office, along the finely written rules that Curt Mega very much signed himself off to. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t send rescue teams, even if she wanted to. 

 

Cynthia grimaced at the weighted thought of all of this as she leaned back in her chair, conceding. “Just one I wished I didn’t feel the need to make.”  

 

* * *

 

She stood on the platform moments after the call ended. In the end, she did bypass the programming to have 5 minutes of private conversation with Victoria Daniels. It was well worth it to see her yawn and complain about how it would be a nightmare to explain what happened in New York to C and the other directors. It was worth it to ask her where she’d want to go once this fiasco was done and over with, if Victoria wanted to go on a date. The tired smile on that woman’s face was imprinted in her memory as she laughed and said that she would go anywhere she’d want to go.

 

While she wanted to dwell on those pleasant memories, she had a job to do. She watched as the profiles of Owen Carvour and Curt Mega were projected on one monitor, with notes of their potential whereabouts. A map of New Jersey was blown up on multiple monitors with a blipping dot on a populated area. There were multiple markers showing nearby Grey Areas and CIA safe houses in case Curt was too unstable to be moved. There were even markers to show the nearby squads that could be scrambled to help.

 

A decision had to be made, and fast. Simmons informed her of everything that was on the data package as soon as she stepped out of the room. It was an apartment complex, armed to the teeth by lower level Chimera thugs. There were multiple statues that could be stepped on by commencing a raid on American soil, not to mention the complexities of avoiding collateral damage in a place as heavily populated as New Jersey. They also have to keep it down to avoid any curious bystanders. 

 

Cynthia leaned forward, watching the monitors change as new information and theories were added to the current lineup. She had all the resources and means necessary to conduct a paramilitary operation in the middle of a heavily urbanized city. Policy… there really isn't any policy restricting her from using urban warfare tactics in an American city. Wasn't everything legal in New Jersey? The office politics that would come after would be her own work. It would be hell to get the media to shut up about this. She was already calculating how much she needed to pay off the biggest news agencies. 

 

A team had to be assembled and scrambled to New Jersey immediately. It had to be a big one, too. Cynthia thought of all the manpower she can send in without it being overkill, calculating the number of people in the backup teams should they be overpowered by how many assailants were in the apartment complex. She also considered if she had to send a medical team to take care of Curt as soon as he was retrieved, if she should have him directed to the nearest hospital.

 

She spied Simmons from where she stood, currently looking over something that was on someone’s computer. She could only trust one person at the moment to successfully lead the team she would send out to New Jersey. Cynthia didn’t give a shit if Simmons was only a case officer; she knew the work well enough to execute it. Hell, she should be an honorary paramilitary officer by now. Maybe she should talk that over with her as soon as this was all over. 

 

She looked at the monitors again. Neither of Owen Carvour’s trackers could be detected by the programs of the CIA, but she could see that his phone was available for calling. It gave her a clear number of the times they tried to call him: 17. She bit back a sigh and considered manning the phone herself. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d be forced to do so. 

 

Cynthia recalled the emails she got from her fellow directors before she stepped out of the office. They were all in Langley, most likely convened in one conference room, most likely arguing about the legalities of her movements. She remembered the same tone of their emails, the subtle caution they’d give her should she want to go ahead with this. She bit back a dry laugh as she considered what they’d be talking about right now. They can call it whatever they want: abuse of power, overreach, unnecessary. Whatever she does was on her dime, on her call. They had no right to interfere. 

 

Cynthia straightened and stood taller as she called for everyone’s attention. Chatter ceased and all heads were tilted up to the platform as she looked at each of them, watching as they all held their breaths in preparation for what she had to say next. Cynthia squared her shoulders and gave them a sweeping look. She was the Director of the Directorate of Operations, the head honcho of this joint. She took a deep breath and cleared her head of any other worries.

 

“I want a team headed to the coordinates we’ve been given. Inform the MI6 office that we’re going in. Someone get me a line to Owen Carvour this instant.” Cynthia barked, watching as some people scurried back to their desks to get that done. scanned the room until she found the person she was looking for, “Simmons. I want you in battle gear this instant. You’re headed to New Jersey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The workload this school gives me is insane, but we gotta grind anyway. I've been doing comps left and right and haven't got the time to do some serious writing, but hey, I'm here aren't I?
> 
> NOTES! God I missed writing these notes:
> 
> \- Word count for Phase 1 is 4969. That was an accident. I also don't know how I got that.  
> \- Song of this phase is Hallelujah by Reuban and the Dark. Check it out! Very fun song.  
> \- At some point whilst writing this segment I forgot the word "irresponsibility" and asked Lilly for a word meaning "irresponsible". This is the problem of a bilingual. Kindly roast.  
> \- Yes, we got former paramilitary now admin Cynthia Houston! Very long story at that, but we can confirm that she is the division's mother. Can't touch her babies.  
> \- For Cynthia, MI6's call for help looks like a request for her to do their job. She doesn't know why Victoria would allow Stephen to do such a thing. It looks pathetic babe but seriously, this is your home court! Of course they'll need some assistance!  
> \- "Flippity flappity fuck" is a flippity flappity fucking SAF reference.  
> \- Q's is, well, a James Bond reference.  
> \- This scene happens sometime around 10pm New York time, so it's safe to assume it's 3am in London then.  
> \- Clearly, everything being legal in New Jersey is a Hamilton reference.  
> \- The nature of Simmons' work has yet to be explored here and may be explored in the future, stay tuned :)
> 
> Well! That's one down, two to go. Keep your eyes peeled :)


	14. spectre of my mortal soul [phase 2]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say to keep your eyes peeled, didn't I? 
> 
> Let's talk about my absence: Spending my holidays stateside was a really weird experience, but a good one nonetheless! Being around my extended family after so long was such a good thing to have when it's usually just my immediate family during Christmas. I did hate New Year there, though. I love the racket and all the fireworks. Shame that it was quiet :( 
> 
> Alright! We've bumped up the rating for graphic depictions of violence, and here we are. The sheer chaos I've got to inflict. God. Give me strength.
> 
> So while me and Cailin and Lilly are jumping around with pure feral energy and holding hands, I suppose it's time to warn you now of all the possible triggers: Violence, some graphic descriptions of blood, some sort of morbid discussion of deaths, and general violence. I'd suggest to tread lightly especially by the last sequence. That was a lot to write through. 
> 
> Again, we dedicate this chapter to Ashlyn, who's been there since day one. Love you baby, hope you love this <3 
> 
> And we hope you do too! So sit back, relax, and watch us work our magic!

**phase two: someone’s got blood on their hands**

[Owen Carvour]

 

_ Someone’s got blood on their hands _

_ Someone’s got blood on their hands  _

_ With a stone cold glare and a crooked grin _

_ You know exactly what we’re saying when we say _

 

_ Someone’s got blood on their hands _

_ Someone’s got blood on their hands _

_ Forget about truth and consequence _

_ We’ve got a way to deal with this  _

 

* * *

  
  


Usually, Owen Carvour hated driving in the United States. Usually, he would explain that the Americans had it all wrong when it came to matters on the road, and that doing everything opposite of England was just petty rebellion against their former colonizer, or something like that. Really, it’s just so jarring to have the wheel on the other side of the car, to have to drive on the wrong side of the road. Reflexes twitched and inner senses screamed at him whenever he got behind the wheel in this side of the pond. Driving twitchy was never a good thing for him.

 

So if he could, he’d opt out of it as soon as there was a need for long distance travel in a car. He was always the first to ask if someone else in the team can drive them, or if they can just use public transportation for the sake of looking inconspicuous. Even then, the latter option wasn’t frequently explored. Curt always agreed to do the driving between the two of them, or there was one subordinate who could be needled to do the work. 

 

But not tonight. Owen couldn’t trust anyone but himself to get behind that wheel and get to New Jersey, not even the yellow cab drivers with their tired eyes and weary smiles. Believe him, driving would not be making him twitchy, in fact, would only soothe his nerves and burn all the energy that’s welled up inside him. He plotted out everything in his head since he got the text from Mclain. There was something fixed and final about his decision when he decided that there was no way he wasn’t going to act upon her information now.

 

Not after what he heard in that phone call. 

 

But he still had some shreds of self-preservation in him. He called Tatiana for backup, the only person he could trust at the moment. He knew the CIA and MI6 would refuse to let him go if they knew where he was going, so he didn’t bother. Everything was absolutely crystal clear in his mind as soon as he opened the front door for her, a bag slung over her shoulder and a tight frown fixed on her face. It’s been a while since he last saw her, what with their busy lives and busier schedules. She was a freelancer the same time he was loaned off to Europol for efforts to end sex trafficking. It was clear that neither of their paths would intersect. 

 

The job tonight was to rescue Curt, the how to be discussed during the drive upstate. Before she came here, Owen made sure to check the coordinates provided by Mclain over his phone, and proceeded to memorize the route going there before deactivating the tracking bug on his phone. They were holding Curt in a densely populated part of New Jersey, an apartment complex owned by a Chimera shell company. How no one figured that out was stupefying. It was at least ten stories tall with a bar at the ground floor. Avoiding a firefight was essential if they wanted to get away with this rescue unnoticed by the general populace. He already knew that executing that would be a headache.

 

Owen had most of the things he would need for this mission, mostly weapons scattered about the house that needed to look around for. He spent most of his time crouching down and looking around all the hiding places Curt listed off after he was done putting away all the guns, the grin on his face etched into memory every time Owen found what he was looking for. 

 

He had every weapon he’d need and extra ammunition: two pistols with silencers, two knives, three small bombs if necessary, and a thin bullet proof vest. He had plans of taking the gun of whoever he nabbed along the way, using Chimera’s own weapons against them as he continued on with this daring operation. He laid everything out in front of him and held each weapon one by one, raising them up, pointing them against the wall. He felt their heft weight in his grip, how the grooves slotted against his fingers, how cold the metal was against his fingertips. They reminded him of the weight of this mission, the consequences of his actions should he fail.

 

Owen can’t fail. Not when this is about Curt. 

 

There was a grand possibility that lives will be lost in this mission. It’s not even a possibility now that he saw it; it was a certainty. Owen knew how to kill, of course, but he just never had a mission where killing was the primary objective. Everything before then was purely circumstantial: a bomb here, an unfortunate bullet there, a stab wound a little too deep. Some accidental deaths were collateral damage in his missions, a side effect, but a death with intent? That wasn’t exactly something frequently coming up in his job description. It wasn’t something commonly found in his system. 

 

But he’ll do it now, do it for his Curt. He made up his mind when he heard that knock on his door, when he crossed the hallway to open the door for Tatiana. She looked the same as she last saw him, weary lines under her eyes, carrying a bag and her leather jacket. She had such an intense gaze, as he gazed back at her, the kind that pulled the world in and into a blackhole that pulled in all the energy near it. She bore in that gaze the same kind of finality, a weight of sureness, and he could do nothing but nod respectfully in approval as he held up the keys and stepped out of the door, following her into the car.  

 

Don’t worry, he’s not a monster. Of course he left some food and water for Agent.

 

Owen’s head was reciting directions to the apartment complex as soon as he pulled away from the sidewalk, giving the safe house one last fleeting look before he turned back to what was ahead. It would only take them an hour, maybe an hour and a half to get there. He even summoned up the GPS route and recited the directions with the phone AI until he was satisfied with himself. Tatiana was blessedly silent as he kept doing this over and over, through the worst of Manhattan traffic until they hit the arteries of this world. 

 

It took five minutes of driving before his phone started ringing. Owen spared it a quick glance. He expected her to call, Cynthia. She surely noticed that he switched off his trackers, put them aside, and only brought his phone and weapons with him. Of course she would assume he was out to get Curt, and that he knew where the man was. Of course she would order him to stand down as soon as he answered that phone. He paid it no mind until the screen blacked out, the call dropped. The cycle repeated itself a few more times before Owen reached over and switched it off entirely. The ringing ruined his concentration.

 

A bitter thought came to mind: Stephen ratted him out. That’s also why Cynthia knew.

 

Maybe Tatiana wanted to be a voice of reason, or maybe she just wanted to calm him down. He could feel the intensity of her stare as she gently picked up his phone and switched it on, keying in the code (he doesn’t know how she knew his passcode), and putting the phone on vibrate. She was still looking at him when he finally turned to her, waiting for what she had to say.

 

“Are you sure you’re just going in with me as backup? And no one else?”

 

He blinked. Who else was he supposed to call, anyway? There wasn’t much people he trusted in this side of the pond. The only other person he’d trust to be sufficient backup was the one they were rescuing, and only now did he understand why he was so damn good as backup. Curt had the training of a military man with the wit of a tradecraft man. That combination of skill sets made him a one man army. 

 

Owen tried to connect the lighthearted, comedic man with the typical profile of a paramilitary officer, and found himself short of connections to put him together with. There were parts of him that couldn’t be explained, parts that were blatantly obvious, and parts that simply did not make sense. How was he supposed to talk about this with Curt when he finally has him? It twisted something in his gut.

 

When he realized that Tatiana was still waiting for an answer, he tugged his lips downwards. Right. The implication that he needed more help than what he had now still did not bode well. “We will manage.” 

 

The drive continued. The people of New York could be so blase, so ignorant to what was going on around them in favor of what’s going on in their little bubbles. It did not matter to them if the car that was zooming past them was a parent going home, a date running late, or a fake marriage partner actual mission partner out rescuing his fake marriage partner actual mission partner from inevitable death. Owen saw pedestrians on their phones as they walked, either talking or typing messages to whoever was on the other side of the line. There were people standing by the side of sidewalks just chatting with each other, some people walking their dogs, some joggers, and some kids with their scooters and skateboards going by. Sometimes he passed by the occasional street musician, who played their tunes with a case full of change and crumpled dollars in front of them. They all seemed so merry.

 

It ticked him, knowing he can’t be happy now, especially since he doesn’t have his Curt to be happy with. What was he gonna do after this was over, when he finally has Curt (alive, certainly not dead)? Was he supposed to embrace him, confess his love for him properly? Or was he supposed to cast him aside and never talk to him again until all that’s happened simmered? Until time has waned their feelings for each other.

 

Somehow, he found that last point unrealistic.

 

His phone lit up as they entered the freeway, Cynthia’s phone number illuminating the screen. It buzzed erratically on the console. Owen scowled as he kept one hand on the steering wheel as the other reached for the phone. Damn the Americans and their lacking sense of privacy. “Bloody hell, can the woman not take a hint—”

 

“It could be something important.” Tatiana took the phone before he could and slapped his hand away, accepting the call and disregarding Owen’s dry glare as she did. There was a straight look on her face as she put it on speaker and dialled the volume up to its highest setting, finally returning it to its place on the center console. When she noticed that he was still glowering at her, she pointedly gave him a look to keep his eyes on the road. He gave her one more frown before turning back to the road ahead. He listened as she talked, “It’s Carvour and Slozho, what is it?” 

 

“We’re sending a team to you.” A chill ran down his spine. Hearing Cynthia Houston after berating her in front of her own office was an experience, something that seemed far colder and intimidating than it ought to be. She carried sternness, a warning, the same kind the wind would howl before a violent thunderstorm. This was the kind of Cynthia he would meet during briefings of Chimera missions. This was the Cynthia he couldn’t fuck with, the incarnate spawn of Satan. 

 

So when she said that she was sending him a team, Owen did not know if he was supposed to take it as a threat or a blessing. He didn’t even  _ know  _ how she was supposed to figure out where they were going, but he did not have the urge to ask her that. She left no room to question anything about the team she’s sending. It’s not like he would get a proper answer out of her. She spoke after a beat, “Don’t fuck this up.” 

 

The line went dead after that, the phone with it. The battery was still rather up there. She must have remotely switched it off for him. Bastard. He gave it one more glower before he pressed the gas pedal down firmly and drove a little faster. He looked ahead at the taillights of faraway cars that twinkled like beacons lighting up the path ahead of him. It was a quarter past 10. He’d be there in an hour, at the latest. How this team is supposedly gonna get there ahead of him is a mystery, one he doesn’t give a fuck to question. 

 

His mind swirled. He wasn’t exactly a SWAT-trained professional. This kind of methods were more of the style of Europol when he was borrowed for the sake of sex trafficking ring busting. He only knew the basics, how to sweep rooms, how to cover sixes, whatnot. 

 

He thought of that nightmare he had…

 

… and floored it until all he can hear in his head was the rumbling of the engine.

 

“Well that was encouraging.” Tatiana commented dryly, tilting her head back to him and offering him a smile. It was a tiny one. Meant to be comforting. He didn’t know if he did find it so or if he just found it disconcerting. 

 

“No shit.” Owen grated out.

 

Silence. 

 

She spoke up, musing loudly, “I wonder what kind of team they’ll send in.” 

 

He swallowed a lump down his throat. He did not want to know.

 

“What kind of state do you think we’ll find him?” She asked again. Her tone sounded genuinely curious, the kind of curiosity that usually made his heart twinge with how stupid it sounded. Instead, it only made his guts twist, breath held back as he leaned back on his seat a little more. Hoping to bury himself in its cushions. Crawl into the fibers never to be heard from again. Hoping to crawl into it and perish with the pure agony that’s wrapped itself around him.  

 

He’s been asking himself that question for a long, long time. He’s gone through all the medical manuals he could find in their house prior to leaving, made sure he still knew every detail. Hell, he even brought one of Curt’s tranquilizers in case he needed to knock the guy out to save him of anymore pain. It just didn’t sit well with him, the anticipation and fear of finally finding out what state his Curt will be in. There was no “best and worst case scenarios” in this. There was no “on the bright side”. 

 

Zero certainties. Nothing to measure and compute and approximate. These are the situations he hated most.

 

In truth, Owen didn’t want to know.  


 

* * *

 

Cynthia only contacted them once much later through Tatiana’s phone, merely listing off an address that was a few blocks from the building where Curt was being held. Owen was idly tapping the steering wheel as Tatiana read out the location, nervously estimating how much of a delay this would be in their schedule. The traffic already pushed them back by a quarter of an hour. He wasn't sure what a tousle with CIA’s roughest would do to the fragile time he already had. 

 

His mind whirred as Tatiana pointed him down the roads he was supposed to go through, an emotional tug of war going on as he wondered if they should accept this help or not. Cynthia’s warning of not fucking it up rang in his head as his guts protested with every turn he made. While pride wanted him to forego this entirely and just do what he’s supposed to, the bare scraps of his self-preservation demanded he take the help. 

 

But something about this whole setup was pulling his guts the wrong way. The location where he’s supposed to meet the team was a little too far from Curt for his tastes. He’s certain that Cynthia’s trying to sabotage his mission somehow. He can see how this looks to her: a deranged, mentally unstable agent going on a suicide mission guns blazing to rescue his partner. He knew what kind of descriptions she gave to the “team” she sent for him: dangerous, volatile, needing to be “put down”. Proceed with caution. As if he was some damned beast that needed taming.

 

Anger coiled in his stomach. He wasn’t some dog that could be willed to obey, who can be taught tricks only to be rewarded with a pat on the head and some half-assed praise. He wasn’t an attack dog, a sledgehammer that can be used at the agency’s disposal. Owen fought with wit, strategy, a certain grace and finesse he expected of himself. He wasn’t a rabid animal. He was human. He could think up his next moves. The notion that Cynthia didn’t see that in him rubbed him the wrong way. 

 

Owen tapped the steering wheel nervously once more as he looked both sides of the road. The blasted traffic light was still blaring red. The pedestrian light to the side made a ticking noise as it counted down the seconds left for pedestrians to walk down the pedestrian lane. His other hand squeezed the gear stick tightly as he looked between the ticker, Tatiana, the light, the right turn he had to take ahead. His hands trembled as his mind scrambled to make sense of the current situation. He didn’t like the uncertainty this scenario is giving him. 

 

Perhaps he was losing his touch, or he was trembling that hard, but Tatiana seemingly noticed and spoke up as the light turned green and he jerked the car forward. “Relax. If there’s a shootout with the CIA thugs, I’ll take them down.” 

 

Biting back the smile that was elicited from his lips from that remark was a failed effort. Of course she would read his mind and see his worries. She knew the kind of instincts a man like him had, and seemed to reciprocate it in kind. When they arrived at the address, Owen made sure to circle the block twice, his eyes on the sidewalk around the vicinity. It was a part of town that was a mix of both residential and small commercial buildings, most likely serving at the convenience of those living in the area. Lights bounced off of glass surfaces of store fronts and windows as they looked around for any threats. There were none.

 

The place reminded him of where he lived in London, a few blocks away from MI6 headquarters, where just around the corner was the door to his flat and Mrs. Graham’s cafe. She was such a darling, prodding him with a plateful of warm food after long work days and longer missions abroad. She always offered to do his laundry every now and then, always made sure to squeeze his cheek and call him cheeky whenever he made a remark about her cooking. 

 

And he remembered the time he saw her with Curt by his side. They were supposed to spend the night in his flat in preparation for the mission they would be having in Belgrade. It was mere coincidence for them to bump into Mrs. Graham. The way Curt’s eyes gleamed as he shook her frail hand and crowed praises about her cooking remained embedded in his memory, making his heart clench whenever it came to mind.

 

His hand clenched the steering wheel, too. Mainly to ground himself. And to ignore how his heart felt like it was splitting rather than beating. 

 

As soon as he was satisfied and confident with his security check, he parked on the sidewalk between a laundromat and an apartment complex. Words were tumbling out of his mouth as he cut the engine, hand already flying for the gun he kept in the cupholders in between them. “I’ll go ahead to sweep the area and make sure there are no surprises. Do you have coins on you? We need to pay the parking meter.” 

 

Tatiana scoffed, “Which of us is pretending to be a local,  _ Mr. Carter _ ? Do I look like I carry around American change in my pockets?” 

 

“Just take care of the bloody meter, Tatiana. I don’t want to get us towed.” 

 

“The meeting will be too short for us to be towed.” She rolled her eyes as she stepped out of the car, Owen joining her quickly right after. The cold nipped against his neck and ruffled his hair as he walked briskly down the sidewalk, looking both ways to see if anyone was watching them.

 

There was no one.

 

He ducked down the alley between the laundromat and apartment complex. The world was a little quieter, somehow, in this small space bordering the two buildings. Little light illuminated this darkened part of the street, and shadows danced around as he looked forward at the end of the alley, where the next street was. The smell of rotting garbage was thick in the air, as well as the familiar scent of rusting iron, the fire exit stairs creaking with every blow of the wind.

 

Owen squared his shoulders and kept walking down the alley until he was somewhere in the middle of it, where the light from both ends did not quite reach. One hand fiddled with the gun in his pocket while the other patted his pockets for something. He simply hated this part, the  _ waiting _ . He expected the Americans to be at the very least  _ punctual.  _ Tardiness was simply a grand inconvenience. Every second longer here is every second that could have been spent rescuing Curt. 

 

“Bloody Americans.” Owen muttered to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. 

 

He finally found a cigarette and a lighter from one of his pockets and lit it, the bright end of the stick illuminating whatever was an inch or two away from his face. The curl of the smoke in his lungs was a comfort as he waited, tapping his foot just to listen to the noise bounce over the twin walls to his sides. Tatiana appeared by his side a moment later, giving him a quick glance and at the cigarette between his lips. She didn’t say anything about it.

 

A van finally came into view at the other end of the alley. Owen took the cigarette between his lips and exhaled, the smoke slithering past his lips and rising into the air. With the way he was inhaling the smoke of the cigarette, he was damn sure that he would burn through it in the next two or so minutes. The smoke felt thick and heavy on his tongue as he held it, watching the people who emerged from the van and stepped onto the sidewalk. They had heavy footsteps and heavy vests. Paramilitary boys. 

 

He never really liked working with the Americans, and that wasn’t just the patriotic British bit of him talking. The CIA had a rather infamous branding associated with countless acts of any sane person would call “terrorism” when the agency’s government would call it “diplomatic intervention”. The ways they utilized their skills and resources was dangerous, manipulative of the affairs of other countries, and borderline illegal depending on who was being asked (the reference organization for this description being the United Nations).

 

Owen knew that in a sense, every intelligence agency has been there, done that, in the name of national security, but Jesus fucking Christ. The CIA had a body count far greater and heftier than any agency Owen could list off. They've mastered the skill of hiding skeletons in their closets. The grocery list of crimes they had to do to preserve their nation's interests was long and winding. There were very few CIA officers that he actually liked, and they could all be listed off and counted on one hand. Everyone else either had ulterior directives or had a holier-than-thou attitude that rubbed him the wrong way.

He watched as the group of CIA agents got closer. At least three of them had visible handguns clipped to their sides. Most of them were a few inches taller than him, with far thicker figures, finetuned American weapons made with muscular hardware. As they stepped closer and into the darkness, Owen tried his hardest to catalog everything he can see from each man, their imposing energies, just in case he needed to tackle them to the ground.

 

It felt like he was playing a game, in this moment. One of those roleplay games or whatever it was his brother played whenever he came to visit the family. A path of decisions and potential outcomes stretched out before him now, taunting him with their possibilities and tutting at him with each choice he made. The two sides were at a balance, a fragile one at that, where everything can change so easily. One wrong move and he could doom himself and Tatiana. One right move and he can save Curt. 

 

He wasn’t sure what these lots knew about him, but by God he hoped his reputation preceded him. It sure was a handy thing to have at the moment, thank goodness. He rolled his shoulders back and felt the familiar twinge of tense muscles, anxiously twitching against his own will. Intimidation was key. Chin up, Carvour. Play the game. 

 

“Who’s your team leader?” Every syllable was punctuated thickly in his posh English accent, further accented by the smoke that slithered past his teeth and into the air. He pulled his shoulders back a little straighter, his gaze passing each man and woman in the darkness, gauging to see which of them would identify themselves as the leader of their side of the operation. The one who had Cynthia’s orders.   
  
It took a while, but some of them shuffled to the side to reveal a smaller, petite figure. A dark-skinned agent made herself known as she stepped forward, close enough for him to see. Her voice carried strongly, “I am.” 

 

Something was familiar about her. She held his gaze with confidence, never faltering nor turning away. She wasn’t like the men behind her who swept their gaze over himself and Tatiana, their nervousness a little more evident upon seeing the latter. It seemed that Tatiana had them cowed with a simple glare, her arms crossed over her chest. He cocked his head to the side. “Do you have anything I can call you by?” 

 

Her answer was immediate. “Simmons.” 

 

“Simmons.” Owen tested the name on his tongue. The face and name clicked. This was the partner his Curt had in while tumbling through the deserts of the Middle East. This was the woman who was there to witness what Curt refuses to talk about with him. Simmons was the person who had answers — what Curt’s done, what he’s been through, what he is now. The thoughts washed over him as he figured that this CIA officer was worth a shred of his admiration and appreciation. “Well, Simmons. Is there anything you’d like to share with the class about your plans are in rescuing Curt Mega?” 

 

Something passed over her face, a fleeting twitch of her lips upwards and the rise of a giggle. Of all the emotions he’d see tonight, Owen did not assume  _ amusement  _ would be one of them as Simmons quickly schooled her face and quirked a brow upwards. 

 

“That’s funny, sir, because Director Houston explicitly said to follow your call.” The reply came out smoothly. Her eyes were alight with a certain type of glee that irked him slightly with how misplaced it seemed. He’d expected sobriety, some kind of cloak and dagger that was often a tad too ridiculous, not this. She gestured vaguely towards the team behind her, the men standing rigidly at attention as soon as they’re acknowledged. “We’re just backup.” 

 

He shared a look with Tatiana. Backup. Surprising. It was presumed that the CIA lots would attempt to take over the whole operation with all their protocols and procedures, and both were ready to stand firm and make sure that they ended up on top. Despite that, it seemed now that they were actually offering to be of assistance, sliding into secondary role.

 

Under her breath, Owen could hear her mutter about how it seemed so un-American.

 

What did Cynthia say, exactly? He wondered. What did Cynthia Houston, Director of the Directorate of Operations, tell every man and woman in this team and their leader, Simmons? Were her words strict and blunt, or were they careful and evenly measured? What of her tone, what could be said of it? Was she harsh and loud, a dragon threatening with her belly’s fire, or did she whisper, a low tone reserved for intimate conversation, as if anything about this was too personal to be spoken aloud?  

 

He took a deep breath and tried to figure her out. He quickly realized he couldn’t.

 

“Backup.” The word, knowing it came from Cynthia, felt foreign on his tongue. It slithered and resisted to stick and coat his teeth. It didn’t feel true. “Is that the exact word she used?” 

 

“Reinforcements, honestly. But it doesn’t hurt to use layman’s terms.” Simmons shrugged. That sounded more of Cynthia’s style. Translating anything from Cynthia’s mouth into basic language almost always never went well. For one, her tone always ended up coming out extremely diluted. Simmons’ eyes glimmered with a mix of expectation and amusement as she stepped forward, dipped her head to murmur. “Do we have a plan, sir?” 

 

Owen shared one more look with Tatiana. They had a vague sense of a plan that they somehow agreed upon with a few looks and a bit of mind reading. Having a team complicated what they already had, but at the same time raised the chances of them making it out alive with Curt in tow. Not that Owen was ungrateful for the help. Help was widely appreciated. 

 

Making up a plan as they went was usually Curt’s job. Owen held that thought with a pang of remorse. 

 

But steeled himself and nodded at Simmons. He watched the slow smile creep on her face as she pivoted on her boots and yelled at the men behind her. 

 

“Listen up!” 

 

* * *

 

The fact that the apartment complex where Curt was being held appeared nondescript was what made this operation risky for Owen. There was nothing that distinguished it from the one that was a few doors down, besides maybe the little pub that was situated at the ground floor. It looked like a friendly establishment. A cozy home that couldn’t be seen as a torture site.

 

Light spilled from the ground floor pub’s large windows, bright amber that dripped golden light onto the pavement outside it. Even from where they sat, they could hear the soft music that was coming from its doors. Surveillance could see people dotting the vicinity with two bartenders manning the drinks. Nothing looked out of place nor weird. And yet heat signatures indicated they had a weapon on them.

 

He tilted his head back. Ten floors up. Blueprints that the CIA had suggested a large, winding staircase in the center of the whole complex. Cameras were on every corner of the hallways and rooms. The building was armed to the teeth, with at least 20 more people milling about the floors. There was a static body at the top of the building, in one of the rooms up there. Everyone’s guess was that they’re holding Curt there. 

 

Simmons took his smartwatch and connected it to a laptop, returned it to him after a few minutes. The blueprints showed up on its face not long after. A good guide to the interior.  

 

The plan (made up on the spot with he and Tatiana exchanging talking points) came out as this: they would be walking into the pub and taking out all the immediate assailants while the CIA placed the CCTV feeds on a loop. Once the coast was clear, Owen would signal them in from the right window. They’d take the back door connecting to the apartment complex and then work their way to the top, either with fists or bullets. 

 

Simmons explained, while holding up a tablet with pictures of the blueprints blown up, that since the place was filled to the brim with people, they had to go have men around them. There was no uncertainty about Curt’s presence in the building. She explained how they were going to divide the team, with Tatiana taking four men and he with another four. She would be staying back with three sharpshooters who’d help pick out whoever tried to shoot at them. She also mentioned the two backup teams that are waiting a few blocks out in case they needed extra people.  

 

He wanted to argue against it. He was trained in matters of espionage, not militaristic protocols and procedures. While he didn’t mind having a team with him, having to wield command over them and barking orders like a wartime sargeant made him wary. Uncomfortable to an extent. This felt more like a battle in the middle of a Middle Eastern country rather than a covert operation in the middle of New Jersey. This felt more like a mechanical, standard operation rather than a heavy mission involving the life of his own partner. 

 

When they were given the go signal to go into the bar, Owen thought of how he wanted to reclaim this mission somehow. He wanted a brawl, a full-blown dirty bar brawl. A game of fisticups. Tatiana commented dryly as they were crossing the sidewalk that he just wanted it for the dramatics. 

 

Clenching and unclenching his fists, he just really wanted it so they can feel the same pain that’s been twisting him all week long. 

 

“Carvour, Vincent Myers and Carys Barker have just arrived. They’ll be joining the team during the break in.” Simmons’ voice came in through the earpiece just as his hand rested on the door handle of the pub. There was no more time to stop and argue with them, even if Owen wanted to tell her to send them back to New York. Stephen or Daniels probably told them to follow ahead. He didn’t have the time nor patience to cause a scene when they were this close to starting a mission. 

 

Conversation petered to silence as soon as they stepped in. This place was warm, Owen thought, the type of place he’d frequent after long missions abroad. There were comfortable booths pushed off to one corner and the whole bar counter on the other side, with ample room for walking and talking. Music from someone’s playlist was playing in the room, and it reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. He gave every man in the room a once over to pick out which of them was a threat and which wasn’t. All of them stilled and had his eyes on them. Most of them had brows knitted and mouths sneered. 

 

“Whatcha looking at?” One of them barked at him, and he paid no mind to the bastard. He had a tattoo creeping out from his jacket’s collar, a two-headed creature that looked much like a Chimera. 

 

Right. None of these were civilians. That made the job slightly easier.

 

“Hey! The guy asked you a question.” One dared to speak up as he tilted back from his seat, teeth a sickening yellow. He could practically see the handle of a gun peeking from his pant’s waist. “It’s rude not to answer it.” 

 

“Get ready,” Owen took a deep breath in and muttered into the earpiece, standing rigidly in preparation for what’s to come. Tatiana stood next to him and tensed visibly, her jaw clenched as she kept mathing out whatever moves she wanted to make. 

 

One dared to approach her after a moment of silence, a tall and heavily built man in a thick denim jacket and work boots. He and Tatiana stepped forward instinctively in an effort to shield each other, instead appearing to be moving in sync as the man procured a gun from his belt. Owen shoved Tatiana aside with a yelled warning as he pulled out his own gun and fired into the man’s chest.

 

He really, really wanted a dirty bar brawl, but a gun was pulled as a first move, and fists simply couldn’t win against a bullet. Typical American behavior. He wanted to scoff and make a dry remark about it, but he did not have much time to get a word out as he narrowly avoided bullets that were flying at him. There were no hiding spots in this pub, all open floor and booths pushed up against the walls. The bulletproof vest the CIA handed him pressed against his chest with every breath he took. Protecting himself was a foresight he forgot to take care of when he decided to go after Curt. 

 

Tatiana didn’t seem to mind his shoving, for she used the time to take her own gun out and fire at the bartender and the man seated by the bar counter. Two more men charged at them and he took a shot at the one closer to them, Tatiana following soon after. The place was eventually cleared of any incoming assailants as they pointed their guns at the lone figure still breathing, a petite figure sitting in one of the booths at the back.   

 

Owen recognized the figure to be Mclain. The (rogue?) agent was dressed simply, wearing a white dress shirt with billowing sleeves and a black ribbon at the collar. Her hands were covered with bright red gloves, about as bright as the lipstick on her lips. She swirled the martini glass in her hand as she eyed him steadily, watching him with a strong gaze gauging his movements. There was blood spattered inelegantly on her ankle. She didn’t seem to show any disgust nor notice from it. “You know what you have to do.”    
  
Owen gestured towards the men sprawled all over the floor and frowned, cocking his head to the side. She had sat there the whole time and did virtually nothing, merely watch. Was her presence a good omen, or a warning? Sarcasm dripped from his tongue as he felt his annoyance simmer under his skin. “Is this all the help you’ll be giving me?”    
  
“All the help I can afford to give.” Mclain had the gall to appear remorseful before she raised the glass held in her hand. “Cheers.” 

 

With that, all goes dark. Owen’s about to ask if it’s the CIA’s doing until panicked reports arise from the communications channel. Emergency lights flicker and bathe the room in a red glow as it blinked in time with the siren overhead. Owen and Tatiana shared a look. They’ve been ratted out. 

 

He wanted to bellow about the duality of this fucking double agent. 

 

Just in time, the CIA swarmed in the scene, wearing full tactical gear and decked with weapons. Following behind them were both of the MI6 officers, who sported worried faces at the sight. The group seemed to not mind the dead bodies littered all over the floor and instead kept their eyes trained on the duo, who were both staring back. 

 

Three officers approached them and offered them thicker bulletproof vests, a helmet, gloves, and a large rifle with extra ammunition clips. All of this was military grade stuff, the kind Owen doesn’t usually have access to, and memories of his nightmare and all those missions for Europol swirled around his mind as he numbly pulled on the equipment. Focus. He needed focus. Everyone in this building needed his absolute focus. 

 

Finally, head clearing, he turned to Tatiana for something to say. She looked tiny under all that kevlar bulk. Through the red, he could see her vaguely withheld worry masked as confusion. “Who did this?” 

 

“That’s not us, but it might be Mclain.” One of the CIA officers nodded at the direction of the booth, and he turned to see that indeed, Mclain has disappeared from her seat. He didn’t have the energy to be surprised. A bright light appeared in his peripheral as one of the other officers perused a tablet on their wrist, containing blueprints outlining the whole building. 

 

After a while, another officer looked up and pointed at one of the doors. “We need to go!”

 

He didn’t need to be told twice. Owen was about to bound ahead with his rifle at the ready when someone grabbed his elbow and spun him around. He was shocked to find himself facing both Vincent and Carys, both wearing twin looks of worry. He never thought he’d see them in anything other than soft cashmere and cotton dress shirts. He wasn’t sure he liked the change in attire. 

 

Carys tried to speak, “Owen, we were so–”

 

“Let’s talk later.” He shrugged her grip off of his elbow and turned away, getting back to the task at hand as he followed the other officers who made their way to the door. 

 

He started down the ticking in his head. Counting right now worked, giving him more motivation to keep going ahead. Owen certainly can’t have Curt waiting on him, not after waiting for a week long. For some, that would hardly count as a lot of time, but Owen would be damned to let Curt suffer a second longer. He tried not to think of what state he’d find Curt in, already feeling the way his heart stuttered and his blood ran cold. No. Focus was key. Owen was best known for it; now Curt’s life hung on it. 

 

He pressed his back against the wall and lined himself up with the others. He was about to give the order to barge in when someone raised a hand, and a gun was fired. He blinked and saw the multiple bullet holes that were now on the door. He snapped his head to see Simmons holding her gun up as another officer confirmed something for her, her eyes filled with unmasked worry as she finally lowered her rifle and nodded at him. 

 

When Owen opened the door, there was a body. They must have used thermal vision or some shit to see the man who was prepared to shoot them down.  

 

Tatiana eyed the body beside him as she stepped into the room, helping him nudge it aside so that everyone else can come in. The blood looked like a thick, murky thing under the red lighting. She looked to him and only offered a frown, “We need to be more careful.” 

 

They trudged through the apartment unit without anyone rushing in to shoot them down, which was rather suspicious. The red lights kept blinkering above their heads, casting long and intimidating shadows at the most mundane of objects. Owen swept the place with his rifle whenever he walked through a new door, eventually emerging into an open living room. The sirens kept blaring above them. He wondered for how long they’d sound.

 

When he looked at the others and how they were doing, he couldn’t help but notice the CIA officers propping up some steel contraptions on certain surfaces. They were a nice break from the red light that bounced about the room, offering a calming blue that pulsed gently in its own rhythm. He lowered his gun a little and stepped forward to observe it. 

 

“What’s that?” He asked when Simmons stuck a steel ball against the wall, right next to the door frame. It looked similar to the compact hologram projectors he had propped around his side of the desk back in the MI6 office, however, he highly doubted the CIA had plans to put holograms all over the place. 

 

“A sound dampener,” Simmons explained as she tapped at something on her wrist, one of those screens embedded into their gear. A confirmation notification popped up on the screen as she gave the ball (sound dampener, he corrected himself) one more appraising look. Assessing her handiwork. “Makes the wall a little more soundproof if needed. Still in prototype phase.” 

 

He nodded. Must be one of Barb’s contraptions. He remembered getting briefed about what other gadgets the CIA had on them for the mission, but he mostly tuned them out as he plotted out the path they needed to take to get in and out smoothly. He pressed himself against the wall as they lined up next to a door, the one standing between them and the rest of the apartment complex. Owen took deep breaths in and out as he closed his eyes, steeling himself.

 

His mind has never been so  _ clear _ . 

 

“Breach!” A flurry of movement. Something black connected with the doorknob and the whole thing goes flying, hitting an unsuspecting goon or two as the place erupts in exchange fire. Something’s rolled and exploded with thick pillars of smoke, instantly making Owen’s eyes water as he doubled over and squinted against the acrid fumes. He fired at the shadows with blind faith, hoping to god he does not hit someone on his side while avoiding as much fire as he can.

 

Red white red white red white–

 

The group surged forward as the last of them fell. Owen emerged from the smoke with his rifle raised, instantly firing at someone who was standing by the staircase. The siren overhead became white noise as it was drowned out by the gunfire, loud and bombarding, setting the world alight in a mixture of gunfire and echoing orders. 

 

It took 2 minutes and 27 seconds for Owen to get his foot at the start of the stairs. Large spotlights were propped up on the stairs, so it was a matter of taking those out first to see better. He lost one of his men on the way. Now he had three officers flanking him as they pointed their guns up and fired, trying to angle their shots to where the light was. The way his eyes had to suddenly adjust to the loss of light meant someone had to cover for him as he blinked away the stars dancing around them. He shot down those who stood by the lights. Some of them fell over the bannisters. Owen didn’t bother to watch them.

 

Red white red white red white–

 

“Grenade!” Someone yelled into the channel frantically as something small fell down from one of the floors, bouncing once on the ground before exploding into a million pieces. Owen and the team instantly duck and cover each other as the heat and dust passed over them, uncomfortably hot and painful and—

 

Something hot and painful brushed past him. Owen fought back a groan when he felt a piece of shrapnel cut up the side of his arm, flying away faster than he could comprehend. He knew the cut wasn’t that deep, perhaps not enough to require stitches, but it didn’t help the fact that it was searing hot metal that decided to cross paths with him. It didn’t help the fact that it still hurt like a bitch.  

 

More warnings for incoming grenades come out. He and the team scrambled to get to the fourth floor as Tatiana shouted into their channel, “There! Seventh floor! Take him out!” 

 

Owen craned his neck to see and there, he saw him. Tall, lanky from where he stood, but cutting an imposing figure. His blood ran cold as he recognized the person from afar. Who else wouldn’t know him, the infamous Dmitri Walker? He held several grenades in his hands as he met Owen’s stare, holding it as he released three more.

 

He responded to that stare with three bullets fired at Walkers’ general direction.

 

Red white red white red white–

 

Missed. He didn’t have time to think about it as he was hauled behind a large potted plant. The floor rumbled underneath them and metal groaned from the force being pushed against them, the tiles splintering and flying in all directions. Alarms of nearby cars shrieked from the force of the explosions. The concerned yells of nearby citizens could barely be heard over it.

 

Everything sounded muddled as Owen kept himself curled inwards, eyes shut, his breathing the only thing that vaguely sounded human. There was this high-pitched ringing in his ears that kept everything else dulled and muted. It felt as if his head was ripped open with some kind of barbaric weapon of old. His face was itching and his neck was crawling with something. Someone’s hauling him up and yelling at him, but he couldn’t see who it was. His fingers pinched his nose down as he blew hard, ignoring the protesting ache of his head.  

 

_ “— excuse! Activate the music!”  _

 

Loud bass music echoed all over the building from the steel balls of  _ whatever the fuck that is _ , the force of it powerful enough to make the body thrum with energy. He doubled over and groaned as vertigo threatened to send him back on his ass. Dogs could be heard barking in the distance as Owen realized the purpose of the devices, turning just in time to see one of the CIA officers roll a ball to a nearby corner. The music was all he could hear after it clinked against the side of a wall. 

 

It’s near impossible to explain a firefight in the middle of a city, so they decided to disguise it as a party.

 

“Owen! Let’s go!” Tatiana came into view with two men behind her and grabbed him by the back of his bulletproof vest, hauling him up and dragging him with her as she pointed her rifle skyward and fired. Officers flanked their sides to shield them as they too shot their guns at the shadowy figures above their heads. 

 

Someone pressed something onto his head, and the pain immediately ebbed to something barely tolerable. It felt warm and rectangular, with a strong adhesive. He wondered if this was one of those healing patches he’s heard existed. 

 

Red white red white red white–

 

“Break!” Tatiana yelled as a hail of bullets came their way. 

 

Owen grabbed blindly at one of the doors of the apartments and pulled himself into it, Tatiana with him. Both of their teams scrambled inside and shut the door just as bullets barely licked the top of the door. They all quickly backed away and bunched themselves up, one of the CIA officers reporting their current location to Simmons, and then waited it out. 

 

“I hope I don’t lose anymore men.” Tatiana muttered next to him, quietly, as she checked the bullets in her rifle. There was ammunition in this room, haphazardly scattered all over the bed. Unfortunately they were not of the same caliber as the rifles issued to them, so they were basically useless. The CIA officers were pocketing them, nonetheless. Just in case. 

 

He looked behind him and at the men, counting the heads. Five were crouched all over the place. Three of them were his, two hers. She must have lost two men already. 

 

When they were given the go signal to get out, they split again. There was another fresh round of goons to take out. Tatiana needed to see if scavenging the rooms around them would reap new weapons to use against the Chimeran forces. Both he and Simmons agreed on that and let her be. Owen gave her one nod, a tight tug of the lips, before he turned and continued making his way up the building. 

 

A second obstacle came into view 10 minutes and 45 seconds into the raid. They stopped, suspended in the middle of the stairs, staring ahead at the barricade blocking them from the sixth floor landing. It was just a flipped table. No one seemed to be on the floor itself, either already incapacitated or wheezing on the floor. Owen raised his gun slowly and signalled at the team to slowly edge closer towards the table.

 

Red red red  _ red  _ –

 

A blur of motion coming up from the table prompted Owen to yell at them to get back as they raised their own rifles and fired indiscriminately. Owen faltered and almost stumbled into the man behind him as he felt himself being pushed back by the impact of a bullet, taking in a sharp breath as someone grabbed his arm to steady him. His eyes were screwed shut as he struggled with his breathing, drowning out the racket in his earpiece and the people around him as he tried to focus.

 

_ Curt laughing, that goofy ass smile, the way he’d hold Owen’s hand when he means something. Curt crying, a broken man made of broken sobs, murmuring one more “I love you” before the call ended. _

 

He took a deep breath. The racket of the gunfire felt near, but he didn’t see himself nor the men around him fall from being turned into Swiss cheese. He slowly opened his eyes to stare at the blue glow of whatever it was the men in front of him were holding up, a soft hum coming from it as it took the brunt of the bullets. The air before him fizzled and warped with a whine as he realized what he was staring at. 

 

Hard light. Holographic shields. Whatever they were called, he’s heard that agencies have been tinkering with that.

 

“Are you alright, sir?” One of them turned to look at him, clear worry in his face. Blood and dirt and tiny specks of glass decked his face and beard, but he had the gall to appear concerned. Owen didn’t know what to make of that. 

 

Through gritted teeth and throbbing pain, he carefully extracted the bullet that dug itself in the kevlar of his vest. “Let’s get out of here!” 

 

A nod of affirmative. Owen and the team quickly descended, forming a shield to block him and another officer who had her gun aimed skyward. They tried their best to take out the people firing at them from above, fighting back the smoke and smell of burning metal that threatened to sear their eyes shut. There must be a small fire at the lower levels. That should complicate their exit.

 

Jesus, where the hell are they all coming from? 

 

“Duck and cover!” Simmons yelled into the channel as another round of explosives descended. They managed to make it to the landing of the fifth floor and quickly huddled together to hide away from the worst of the explosion, shaking off the way the floor rattled and moaned with the threat of giving way. 

 

He closed his eyes and thought of something to calm him down.  _ Curt’s deft hands on his hair.  _

 

He checked the people around him. He had three people with him, two men and one woman. He gave each of them a once over: blood marred their uniforms and clothes while their skin was decorated with gashes, bruises, some badly bleeding cuts, debris from the multiple explosions, and–

 

Red white red white red white–

 

Vincent was in his team. He almost forgot that the boy was with him. He reached over and gave him a quick pat down, worrying that something didn’t seem right. His guts were practically screaming it out to him. There’s something missing on the boy’s person. He looked mostly unharmed, dirty blonde hair peeking out from the helmet issued to him, bright greens looking like a murky moat under the red lighting–

 

Wait. There it is. That’s what’s wrong.

 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Owen hissed as he pulled the man closer, realizing upon second thought that Vincent couldn’t hear whatever he’s saying. His hearing aids were nowhere to be seen. They must have fell during one of the explosions, or probably gotten loose from all the running, or  _ something _ . He expected that Vincent would at the very least make it known to him as soon as he lost his damned hearing aides. Instead, he only had to find out now that something was going on. The boy blinked in surprise as Owen fumbled, holding up his hands to sign.  _ Where hearing aids?  _

 

Vincent shrugged at him innocently and raised up both hands to sign.  _ Removed. Loud loud. No words, sound yes. Me fine.  _

 

_ You better.  _ Righting himself, Owen looked around his team and picked between the two who were with him, eventually deciding on choosing the burly man. Despite his seeming toughness, the man jumped with the sudden touch, rifle halfway raised in defense. Owen jabbed a finger into his chest before turning it to Vincent, who idly watched in mild amusement. “You. Watch his back. Don’t you dare let him get shot.” 

 

“Yes sir!” The man nodded and positioned himself in front of Vincent, tapping his shoulder and asking him if he’s alright before confusedly staring at the signs Vincent returned to him. 

 

Owen peered from across the floor to see where the others were. He and Tatiana were on the same floor, the latter’s team looking for another way to get up with the current time constraints. Simmons and her team were still stuck on the second floor, trying to take out the people above them. He couldn’t see the stairs from where she stood, either blown out by the explosions or covered by the thick smoke of a growing fire. Lucky bastard took all of the best sharpshooters for herself. Time kept ticking down in his mind. It did nothing good to his worries. 

 

“Tati, think we should smoke them out?” Owen called back at Tatiana in the channel.

 

“Good idea.” Tatiana said from the channel, eyes locking from across the floor. No one bothered to bring actual grenades, probably because it was assumed that it wouldn’t be necessary. Now they were scrambling in search of some to use against the enemy. It seemed now that their hubris was their downfall. “We’re running low on ammunition and options here, so best make that decision now.” 

 

“Simmons, your men–”

 

“I got it.” Orders were yelled in her side of the building before a confirmation was sent, “I’ve got my men aimed at the tables. Smoke them out!” 

 

He nodded at Tatiana. She was the one who had a clean shot at their side of the floor, and smoke grenades that remained unused. She must have found a grenade launcher somewhere there because one of her men were lugging one around with him, propping it up for her to put a grenade into it. Owen watched as the grenades were launched at the direction of the sixth floor landing, the smoke flying out of it with a shrill scream. 

 

Three shots were heard before someone yelled, “They’re down! Go for it!” 

 

He didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded at his team and started making his way up the floor, converging with Tatiana’s team as they both kicked aside the table. Everything else was systematic, gunning down whoever came at them and then making their way up to the next floor. It came with a sort of rhythm he was glad to have, a method that he slowly got used to.

 

He wondered, while pointing his gun at whoever was coming at them and firing down people faster than others would, if this was how they trained Curt. If this was how they turn a man into the government’s property, a machine used to take out as many people as needed. This was more militaristic, more methodical than anything he and Curt ever did in tandem. He wasn’t sure if he found the camaraderie comforting or not. 

 

He thought, has Curt been holding back on him? He knew those paramilitary boys worked in groups. Has he held Curt back with the lack of additional backup to work with, or has he respectfully taken on the work of a team to compensate for the lack of it?

 

Owen thought of the way Curt tilted his head back and grinned slyly at a job well done. No, his mind was settled. Curt always was who he was.

 

The groups split as they got to the higher levels. The people here were fewer, seeing as they were either killed already or descended into the lower floors. Some of the team broke off the sweep the upper floors for anything else, like a bomb or illegal drugs or some shit like that. The music kept booming about them, lights still blinking that dreadful red color. He gave the men behind him a look. They were still mostly alive. 

 

“They’ll classify the deaths of the paramilitary officers who died tonight, won’t they?” Tatiana asked quietly, eyeing the people they had scattered in their vicinity. Owen looked around them and stared at each of them, eyeing the wary eyes sunken into wary faces. These were men and women who risked their lives in the name of one man. He wasn’t sure if this would fly in the CIA’s mandate.

 

He recalled the memorial wall they had in the main headquarters, the marble wall with black stars etched into it. He frequently passed by it whenever he came to visit, actually did the last time he was there, pausing to pay respect to those who died in the line of duty. Sometimes he gazed upon the logbook and mouthed the name of each star on that page. More often than not, there were little to no names to say.

 

It only occurred to him that many of those who died served in the paramilitary forces.

 

“Of course they will,” Owen finally said, turning his gaze back to her. His heart stuttered at the thought of Curt joining those stars on that wall in Virginia. No. Not tonight. “Maybe they’ll even redact the names from the Book of Honor.” 

 

Taitana was quiet for a moment, as if paying a moment of respect, or taking time to mull over this revelation, before turning away and shaking her head. Whether it was out of disappointment or sadness, he could not tell. “I’ll tell Simmons to pick up their bodies after this is all over.” 

 

He watched her for a moment longer. He also did not like this, the fact that they dragged in people to die in this hellhole. This was why he hardly wanted backup. No one else needed to be involved as is, and yet here they were. Was the exchange of efficiency worth the three men they lost, maybe more? 

 

Owen did not have the time for these questions.

 

Instead of saying anything more he nodded quietly and turned away, seemingly providing an air of privacy. They were finally on the tenth floor, the last one. It’s been 20 minutes and 17 seconds. 

 

Red white red white red white–

 

“I’ll check this side of the floor.” Tatiana nodded and jabbed her thumb at the direction of the part of the floor on the other side of the building. Owen nodded, understanding what was going on, patting himself down to check what he had left. All of the ammunition he had for the rifle was gone. He still had Curt’s sidearm, as well as a knife should he absolutely need it. The communications channel was eerily silent. She gave him a look, “Call when you find him.” 

 

There was no “if” to this whole situation, but “when”. Finding him was practically a guarantee; after all, would Chimera drain resources for the sake of throwing a red herring? It simply wasn’t their MO. Owen felt his heart hammer in his chest for the first time since crashing into this building, his mind’s thoughts knitting together into a jumbled mess of words. He needed it to be clear. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle of the room nearest to him.

 

“Delta team just confirmed securing the Santos family. Sergio Santos is detained at home with his family.” Simmons confirmed over the channel. Something about how all this was said both comforted and disturbed him, knowing that their connection to the inner circles of Chimera was under their custody. He understood the need to have Sergio under their custody, but at the same time, something about dragging his whole family with him did not bode well with Owen. He’ll ask Simmons later if he can arrange a chance to meet him to discuss matters concerning their case. Maybe then he could learn the names of those who ordered for Curt’s kidnapping.

 

Owen was about to open the door wider when he heard something clatter inside. Stilling, he briefly flicked his eyes down to make sure that his handgun’s safety was off. 

 

He almost forgot about Walker. 

 

“ _ You. _ ” The word was punctuated with the painful crackle of his shoulder as he was simultaneously pulled into the room and slammed harshly against the wall. The door was closed in the distance. His pistol clattered away. His ears rang for a moment and he closed his eyes, biting back a groan as he felt Walker’s hands bite into his skin. God, the grip this man had was near insane. “I can’t believe you actually decided to show up. Who told you? It was Mclain, wasn’t it? I knew that bitch shouldn’t be trusted.”

 

He decided that he would not offer the man a response to such a question, instead taking deep breaths to center himself once more. He peeped an eye open to look at him firmly. Tall, rather well-built. Clean lines. Clammy hands. A swimmer’s body. Just about his height, but maybe a little thicker. A machete strapped to his back. Knives strapped to his hip. A loop of keys on his belt. He almost looked like his neighbor…

 

Stars flew out of his eyes as he narrowly missed a thrown punch, head reeling from how quick it had to move to avoid it. Time sped up as he realized what was going on and he immediately launched himself into fighting mode. Adrenaline oozed into him as he took quick breaths, crouching, maneuvering himself away from another punch and away from the wall, switching their positions. He went for a left hook and felt it connect. 

 

It was the most satisfying sound he’s heard since he got here.

 

Walker pulled away, stumbling from the force of the punch, pressing himself against the wall. Huh. Must have been stronger than he thought. Owen took the knife out from his belt and held it up in defense, glancing every now and then between the pistol on the ground and Walker. It would be an awkward shuffle to grab it, and a move he did not have the intention to do. He wanted to take Walker in alive rather than kill him then and there. He wanted to  _ know  _ what he did to Curt just to make him feel ten times worse. He reached up to his earpiece.

 

“Tati, if you could be a darling and get over here.” He took in a slow, shaky breath. Centering himself. Focus, Carvour. “I got Walker.” 

 

He could have been stabbed while talking to her, but no, he wasn’t. Owen dropped his hand and grabbed Walker by his wrists, their knives clattering together, a weird kind of struggle to keep one from stabbing the other. The knives eventually fell out of their hands and away from unfortunate feet. What happened next was a rather evenly matched wrestling match. Some kind of awkward razzle dazzle. 

 

“Get your hands off of me!” 

 

The struggle of men both of relatively the same height and weight would be the fact that they were relatively evenly matched. One action would quickly and easily cancel out the other. Equal forces of opposite ends equal zero. But maybe that’s too simple a way to explain this situation. There was also the additional problem of Owen hauling his ass up 10 flights of stairs while Walker has been stalking around, well, try 4 or 5. The former’s more winded. The latter’s just getting started.

 

And yet despite all of that, they were both well-fueled by adrenaline and sheer force of will. 

 

The tension had to break at some point. His grip on Walker’s wrists slipped and suddenly he felt pain shooting up his sides. Damn, those punches to his ribs knocked the hell out of him like it was no big deal. Owen staggered back and found that he was against the wall again, cornered. 

 

An interesting thing to note was that cornered animals tended to act more violently upon knowing that there was no way out. They become rabid, hellbent in a sense, to get out of that corner and escape. They thought with the need to get out than the need to get out alive. 

 

While Owen was no animal, he sure as hell was hellbent.

 

So he took another hit. Dizzying. He thought maybe tiring out Walker a little would work so he could finally move out of the corner and switch places with him. He kept his arms up and blocked every fist that came flying at him, his arms taking the brunt of the pain, until they were too painful to keep up. He swept himself underneath punches when he couldn’t take it, tried punching back when he could, hell, even tried to maneuver his rifle to butt Walker in the head.

 

But nothing worked. His own gun was used against him. Every color was either a muted version of itself or black, the blinkering red a dulled burgundy, almost a dirty sort of brown. Stars were dancing in his vision. He slumped and felt pain shoot up his ass from how hard he dropped on himself. A soft groan was forced out of his lungs as he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to center himself. The world had gone sideways. 

 

He tried reaching for the gun. A foot connected to his hand. 

 

The sound out of his own throat was one he did not even recognize as his own. 

 

Ah, there it was. The dulled yell of “Take this!” 

 

The ground trembled in front of him when Dmitri Walker fell. There were multiple of him in front of him, and he was sure as hell he got some kind of concussion from this brawl. He stared at the (multiple) face(s) of his adversary, the man who’s most likely tortured his Curt, and eyed the way the blood trickled from the cut(s) above his eyebrow(s). His eyes were closed shut. Despite everything, he seemingly neglected to use his machete. Odd. Was it for a finishing move or something, some kind of assassin’s flair he wasn’t aware of?

 

Tatiana was staring down at him when he finally rolled onto his back, allowing her to take him by the hand. There was no music now. There were still people yelling outside. The sirens were still wailing and the lights overhead were still blinking. Yeah, he definitely had a mild concussion. It’s probably worsening by the minute.

 

She gave him a look. He couldn’t read it as he leaned against the corner, blinking back the stars that continued to dance in his eyes. The gaze she gave him mixed together confusion and pity and clear concern as she pointed to what was behind him.

 

There was one more door. When she took his watch and brought up the blueprints, he had to squint to focus his sight to see one figure. He couldn’t believe it. This was the door where that static figure was. His heart trembled as fresh adrenaline shook his core as he looked at Tatiana wondrously. 

 

“This is the place.” Tatiana said, just as everything sunk in and the world stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES AND NOTES AND NOTES: 
> 
> \- Seeing as this is the meat of the whole chapter, this currently has 12069 words. I also have no idea how I got there. It's jarring.  
> \- The song of this phase is "Someone's Got Blood on Their Hands" by The Dear Hunter! A friend recommended it to me a while back so when the time came to name this phase, it was the first song that popped into my mind before phase one or three. Absolutely a banger, I recommend!  
> \- I think this was the first phase I ever plotted -- in the whole story. This was the one I had in mind for the longest, and my nickname in the Discord SAF server being "ANGRY OWEN RIGHTS" for a good chunk of my time there says a lot about that. I've been dreaming about this day for ages, and finally we've gotten to this mark! I will have to admit that a lot of the original plotwork has changed, but ah well I can't complain. It's still so good!  
> \- There is a barely there MKO reference listed somewhere there, good luck finding it?  
> \- I really like the thought of Owen driving through New York and having internal road rage. Like, same buddy. I think we'd all have that.  
> \- Writing angry Owen is such a huge challenge for me mainly because we have canon-wise a composed and passive-aggressive type of Owen but I wanted one that was literally. The type that was an angry storm. The type that elicited all the tropes and metaphors. I wanted to put him through a roller coaster, so maybe that's why this took a while to churn out. I assumed he'd be the type to brood before ultimately snapping, and well, we did get it, didn't we? Fun days.  
> \- Finally we have Simmons and Owen meeting in person! This was supposed to happen earlier, but, well, I guess I changed my mind. This was also a scene that's been plotted out since the beginning of the story, but not exactly in fine detail as what is currently made. I still love it, though. Wouldn't change it for the world.  
> \- That cigarette scene can be blamed on Anastasia and Millie, the Server Wives, who fucking got me with their cigarette fixations in their fics. Goddamn you both. I would recommend you read them, however! Faded Rainbow by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet) and The Shrike To Your Thorn by preach-electric both decked me. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.  
> \- Am I roasting about the Iran-US relations issue? Why yes, thank you for asking.  
> \- The "holier-than-thou attitude" remark is starkly ironic when you'd think Curt would have the same impression on Owen, don't you think?  
> \- There is a lot of irony in Owen thinking that murder by cold blood alone is better than methodical killing by a squad of paramilitary officers. Like, consider the moral ambiguities of both, goddamnit. It's mostly a question of pride here and I find Owen's decision on the matter funny.  
> \- The exchange between Mclain and Owen was probably the first dialogue I ever wrote for this whole bit.  
> \- I think Owen wasn't paying attention when he was being introduced to his team, but I'm damn sure he should know that Carys designed healing patches.  
> \- Funny how Owen still infanticides / makes Vincent feel like a junior. Funny language, calling him "the boy".  
> \- I read this whole academic paper on how able bodied writers have failed to properly write dialogue for deaf characters in ASL/sign languages. Apparently ASL does not follow standard English grammar rules, as it's basically coded charades. At best, it can be described as terribly broken English for us. So here is an attempt of me trying to justify that by writing how I'd assume direct translations of ASL would be.  
> \- Yeah, paramilitary boys really own the most stars on the CIA Memorial War. Is it worth the bragging rights? I'd say no.  
> \- No, Dick Big and Dmitri Walker are not the same people. Please calm down. I'm making funnae joke
> 
> Alright, two down, one more. The last one will take a while, as preparation for the school's annual fair may swamp me. As always, leave your love and reactions, much love <3
> 
> \- Fama crew


End file.
